Everything possessed the power to transform itself, or else, and what meant more, to be transformed.
A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have.
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
One's ignorance is one's chief asset.
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
It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.