A poem about Language Centered Poetry

I woke up to the sound of language, centering its poetry.

"Good morning," it said. I think it said, "good morning."

It sounded like the front door opening in the home of my childhood, being heard from the outside in.

Soon, other doors opened in the neighborhood and they all sounded the same though I knew they were different doors of different sizes, made of different types of wood.

I listened as the doors opened and waited for the doors to close, noting the sameness of the sound of one and then the other, and the difference between the opening and the closing of the different sounds, which is sleight and of no real difference.

If different doors of different size made of different types of wood make the same sound opening and almost the same sound closing, there is then no difference between them, is there?

I carried this problem through childhood, it vexed me in puberty, pestered me through high school and college but I could come to no conclusion. Not even writing poems all by myself, centered and uncentered, led to the understanding I was seeking, though writing poems had other therapeutic benefits.

Years passed, hundreds of thousands of poems have been written and read by famous and not-so-famous poets, good poems and bad poems and poems that aren't poems and poems that aren't poems that become poems because they aren't poems...and not one of them has provided an answer to my question, "what is language centered poetry?"

This morning the sound of language centering its poetry by the opening and closing of doors woke me.

I got out of bed, pulled the blinds and looked out the window. It's Chinese out there this morning I thought, noting the dark clouds, the mist and fog on the hills, the snow in the mountains.