In nature there are few sharp lines

The white sun like a moth on a string circles the southpole.

Things go away to return, brightened for the passage

The walk liberating, I was released from forms, from the perpendiculars, straight lines, blocks, boxes, binds of thought into the hues, shadings, rises, flowing bends and blends of sight.

If the greatest god is the stillness all the motions add up to, then we must ineluctably be included.

The poet exposes himself to the risk. All that has been said about poetry, all that he has learned about poetry, is only a partial assurance.

A poem generated by its own laws may be unrealized and bad in terms of so-called objective principles of taste, judgement, deduction.