Poem A Day

It's National Poetry Month, which to journalists is somewhere up there with National Pickle Week, but nevertheless, I am signed up to receive a poem a day until the end of the month or they run out, whichever comes last.
Today's poem is the best I've received so far. It's so good that I will quote it.

 Note that the word "mute" (from Latin mutus and Greek σίγαση) is reported by linguists as an onomatopoeic formation referring not to silence but to a certain fundamental opacity of human being, which likes to show the truth by allowing it to be seen hiding.

And I caution you that you must be patient, make a physical and mental effort,  and pay attention to receive this poem. And then, I tell you, it is worth it.

I should write a poem titled "I Can Never Be Anne Carson, But I Can Dream, Can't I?".

Anne Carson was born in 1950. She received her bachelor's, master's, and doctoral degrees from the University of Toronto. Her books of poetry include The Beauty of the Husband: A Fictional Essay in 29 Tangos (2001), winner of the T.S. Eliot Prize for Poetry; Economy of the Unlost (1999); Autobiography of Red (1998), shortlisted for the National Book Critics Circle Award and the T.S. Eliot Prize; Plainwater: Essays and Poetry (1996); Glass, Irony and God (1995), shortlisted for the Forward Prize; and Goddesses And Wise Women (1992). Carson is also a classics scholar, the translator of If Not, Winter: Fragments of Sappho (2002), and the author of Eros the Bittersweet (1998).
Her awards and honors include the Lannan Award, the Pushcart Prize, the Griffin Trust Award for Excellence in Poetry, a Guggenheim fellowship, and the MacArthur "Genius" Award. Carson is was the Director of Graduate Studies in Classics at McGill University and now teaches Classics, Comparative Literature, and English at the University of Michigan.

And I wonder idly if Carolyn Heilbrun had encountered Anne Carson before she (Heilbrun, not Carson) took her own life. And if she did, how she could not be filled with the desire for more, not less, certainly not nothing.
Idly, then, suicide is the failure of desire.
Forgive me, dear reader, patience.

Yours,

Mutus