All poetry is experimental poetry.
Thought tends to collect in pools.
A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.
The exceeding brightness of this early sun Makes me conceive how dark I have become.
The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.
We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.