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

For though we often need to be restored to the small, concrete, limited, and certain, we as often need to be reminded of the large, vague, unlimited, unknown

Once every five hundred years or so, a summary statement about poetry comes along that we can't imagine ourselves living without

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

To be saved is here, local and mortal

If a poem is each time new, then it is necessarily an act of discovery, a chance taken, a chance that may lead to fulfillment or disaster

If we ask a vague question, such as, 'What is poetry?' we expect a vague answer, such as, 'Poetry is the music of words,' or 'Poetry is the linguistic correction of disorder.'