Though they rise upon a column of the breath, poems rarely evoke the ulcerated saints who long ago crouched on pillars in the desert. The poem hovers distracted above its fastness yet remains attentive to events. Tick of sand-grains. Gleam of wet blood from the distant beak of a wheeling vulture. Softness of a cloud unveiling the moon.
Resistance starts when have to convert it into language.
Language itself is a kind of resistance to the pure flow of self. The solution is to become one's language. You cannot write a poem until you hit upon its rhythm.