A poem must work upon the ear, they say.
The mind, I say.
The ear! they say.  What's a poem we cannot hear?
You can, I say.  The mind's the ear.
The eye, the interpreter, the dancer.
The mind is everything.
The voice must sing, they say.
In the mind, I say.
The poem is a moment, the poem is forever, they say.
Within a mind, I say.
We are averse to this, they say.
It's true, I say.
And what, then, is a poem? they say.
A mind minding itself, I say.