Slowly my body grows a single sound, slowly I become a bell, an oval, disembodied vowel, I grow, an owl, an aureole, white fire poesia "Metamorfosi, I. Luna
If you know what you are going to write when you're writing a poem, it's going to be average.
I too saw the wooden horse blocking the stars.
I read; I travel; I become
She's a rare vase, out of a cat's reach, on its shelf.
The English language is nobody's special property. It is the property of the imagination: it is the property of the language itself.