Today's poem

My inquisitive interest has been space in line for a long time. Each time I attend a workshop, I have asked about the meaning of individual space in a poem. I remember that white space is critical as well as black space as a comment of a poet and tutor in the workshop of A Casa dos Poetas in Portugal. In this viewpoint, I choose the poem. An American poet Linda Gregerson has written poems in a sinuous tercet form that is a formal vehicle for her. Every stanza is a left-justified block with an indented line called a “pivot line” by her. Of course, the meaning of space is varied depending on poets and poems.
I like her poems based on her thoroughgoing research.

Eyes Like Leeks by Linda Gregerson

It had almost nothing to do with sex.
                      The boy
               in his corset and farthingale, his head-

voice and his smooth-for-the-duration chin
                      was not
               and never had been simply in our pay. Or

was it some lost logic the regional accent
               A young Welsh actor may play a reluctant

laborer playing Thisby botching
               and stop our hearts with wonder. My young friend

he’s seven—touched his mother’s face last night
                      and said It’s
               wet and, making the connection he has had

to learn by rote, You’re sad.
                      It’s never
               not like this for him. As if,

the adolescents mouth wherever California spills
                      its luminous
               vernacular. As if, until

the gesture holds, or passes. Let’s just
               we’ll live here for a while. O

habitus. O wall. O moon. For my young
               it’s never not some labored

simulacrum, every tone of voice, each
                      give, each
               take is wrested from an unrelenting social

dark. There’s so much dark to go around (how
               to be this and no other and, like all

the others, marked for death), it’s a wonder
                      we pass
               for locals at all. Take Thisby for instance:

minutes ago she was fretting for lack of a beard
                      and now
               she weeps for a lover slain by a minute’s

misreading. Reader, it’s
               as the lion’s tooth. Who takes

the weeping away now takes delight as well,
                      which feels
               for all the world like honest

work. They’ve never worked with mind before,
                      the rich
               man says. But moonlight says, With flesh.