The personal vocabulary, the individual melody whose metre is one's biography, joins in that sound, with any luck, and the body moves like a walking, a waking island.

All of Victorian verse is pentameter.

The first thing we have to do is get rid of the pentameter. To ditch the pentameter.

The poem is itself a mirror.

The classics can console. But not enough.

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

She's a rare vase, out of a cat's reach, on its shelf.