ALT An image is a gap, a hole. Sometimes small, sometimes large. When I write, I am exiled outside myself, exiled to the image. An image is the poet's chosen place of exile in an age of grief and rage. The poet's existence corresponds to exile into that gap. A bullet of anger lodges within this exile. To transform this exile, this margin, this gap, this hole into a world requires struggle (doing)—a struggle that becomes the act of writing. It is a struggle to be deprived of all that is clear, to become one who moves toward exile from existence itself. It is a struggle to reach a state of no-self, where the ego dissolves. Such existence, fluid in relation to the image, is the most potent resistance. The image exists outside, yet it is farther than my thoughts. I am not here.