Poets struggle to be clear.

Philosophers beseech intensity.

If you were emotionally precise about this
you would not be moved.
If you were conceptually precise about it
you could not be stilled.

Belief constrains desire;
desire disturbs belief.

Every full moon is enough.
Given the dead certainty
of its recurrence, there is
no cause for despair. Just
suffer through and circle
back to the wolf you are.

Of things, precision of reference—a perspicuity.

Of people, precision of deference—an intensity.