It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.

All thoughts emit a throw of dice

O naked flower of my lips, you lie! I await a thing unknown or perhaps, unaware of the mystery and your cries you give, O lips, the supreme tortured moans of a childhood groping among its reveries to sort out finally its cold precious stones.

It is in front of the the paper that the artist creates himself.

The world was made in order to result in a beautiful book.

There is only beauty / and it has only one perfect expression / poetry. All the rest is a lie /except for those who live by the body, love, and, that love of the mind, friendship. For me, Poetry takes the place of love, because it is enamored of itself, and because its sensual delight falls back deliciously in my soul.

It is the job of poetry to clean up our word-clogged reality by creating silences around things.