We do not prove the existence of the poem.

It is something seen and known in lesser poems.

It is the huge, high harmony that sounds

A little and a little, suddenly,

By means of a separate sense. It is and it

Is not and, therefore, is.

– Wallace Stevens

Creation is biography and autobiography; building and dissecting. It is the thing itself and a metaphor for otherness… artifacts and artifices caught in a mise en abyme of self-identity, outposts on the steppes of consciousness, totems marking points on the map. Creation is something said and everything unsaid, implicit and implicating. The life of the mind – internal, spiraling, unbound – is both a warping of and adjustment to the author’s own outward, linear life. However, that imperfect contact is not an explanation for anything. It is not philosophy. It is only human truth, which none the less may be the only explanation possible.

Wittgenstein’s bookends:

The world is everything that is the case.

Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.