All the great things have been denied and we live in an intricacy of new and local mythologies, political, economic, poetic, which are asserted with an ever-enlarging incoherence.
Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.
Thought is an infection. In the case of certain thoughts, it becomes an epidemic.
It is never the thing but the version of the thing.
The purpose of poetry is to make life complete in itself.
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice