The poem is a project:
It returns, day after day, like the sun,
Illuminating what is dark
And darkening with its illumination
(Light is the possibility of shade).

Whither, then, goes the poem in the night of the mind?
Are these forests terrors only, from which I emerge,
Surpassing myself by finding myself again, in the poem?

Is the poem just this journey to the poet?

It is at least not the journey of the poet,
For he has already arrived.

So whose?

He who has already been
And he who is not yet,
The beginning that ends
The end where it begins,
Where neither
Beginning nor end
Begins in its ending
Or ends its beginning,
Though both end up
Right back where they began...

These are the spiraling circles downward
Of the poet's thought. He is like a metaphysician,
Except that sometimes, he writes pretty.