the rewards are many:
poets who land on familiar planets. they've been trained, lots to say, messages in real time.
poets harvesting poems, aliens along for the ride. you look at usefulness and see a possible conjunction. poem is a glass of water, except it is made of words, and you can't see thru.
the aliens that drive poets to distraction: a carload of teenagers on a dark country road are impeded in their merriment by a flying saucer. and they have few words to exclaim. this is a troubling indication of existing class systems, educational boundaries and breeding, plus the natural story from hinterlands.
peace becometh rest. and the rest of that supplies poems, like bears in a wilderness situation, your rational undoing. how strange the childish patience to tell the words exactly.
poets listen to grass, viable until done.
what about the real stars of the show? in someone's roomy apartment, everyone crammed in to hear poems read, declaimed and agitated. a bottle of beer finally. suddenly in the shadows, that's a real alien.
what can we do about the lack of audience? poems are not feasible machines. when you ask, you have started breaking things. things are everywhere,finally, and each thing needs words. are these your words?
meanwhile, don't forget!
the coast is where excitement, boon to travelers in the rites of dark night. the aliens aren't just eager, they know the poems by heart!
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