In poetry the mystery is deepened by a lack of understanding on the part of the poet himself, the yawning gaps between material facts that the poet tries to bridge in words. The poet sort of leap-frogs between clouds of understanding. The gaps are further deepened by the shadows of the present, deep reflections of the poet's own perceptions.

The prose writer should perhaps write as though the words do not belong to him. The words are neither his nor the reader's but are autonomous, growing by themselves like mushrooms in the unfrequented backyards of decrepit buildings. And mushrooms have a way of living and dying. Their umbrellas look so much like clouds as they happen in a destructive nuclear war. Such  prose does not belong to the writer. He distances himself from it. Its origin lay with him but not its growth.

 And like in poetry there will remain large gaps in his understanding, which will challenge the reader's own understanding.