short essay on the violence of Graham Foust's poem Jump

You were there, in my ear (that naïve place), stirring up the wind with your hands. A thousand

thousand sounds but none of them sounding. A poem comes. We stand in it. I literally tear the page

just to get at you, old beast. Some say the sand marks its time by pressing, but like other particulates

it means “earth” only when it shadows. I wake up on this real mattress—the real feelings make it so.

You wear down on me like the opposite of remembering a dream.