Whoever writes a poem wishes to see figures come. Poetry is black blood accumulated within the erectile tissue. No hope but proximity. Irony is its reverse. No hope but hand grip.
Lyricism is both a matter of grip and of touch.
Of expanse and composure. No hope but criticism. Lyricism is also a matter of being aware of its lures. It reverses the ancient power of celebrating into a potency of scrutiny. Now horizontal it questions both the close and the similar rather than the far-aways.