I could define poetry this way: it is that which is lost out of both prose and verse in translation.

A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being.

The heart can think of no devotion Greater than being shore to the ocean- Holding the curve of one position, Counting an endless repetition.

I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree~ And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more, But dipped its top and set me down again. That would be good both going and coming back. One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

The hurt is not enough: I long for weight and strength. To feel the earth as rough to all my length

The sidelong glance is what you depend on.

The question that he frames in all but words is what to make of a diminished thing.