Here's the passage from Charles Bernstein's "How Empty Is My Bread Pudding" (in No Four) that turned my head last night:

I suppose I could equally say the foundation of language is empathy, that empathy is what allows us to get the sense of something, and that its absence puts us outside the possibilities for meaning. But I don't like my empathy solicited. Experience presented is one thing, but being directed toward how to feel about it, well, I'd rather take a walk. Problem is: Is it really possible for a poem not to tip its didactic hat? Poems can't just be, they always mean more than we might want to say or hear. Even the bracketing of experience leans toward a mode of experience.

Beautiful? Possibly. Defensive? Certainly.

And so what, a poem leans; walking, you lean from side to side.

What would it take to feel safe with a poem.