Metaphor creates a new reality from which the original appears to be unreal.

The river is moving. The blackbird must be flying.

I am one of you and being one of you is being and knowing what I am and know. Yet I am the necessary Angel of earth, since, in my sight, you see the earth again.

Beauty is momentary in the mind -- The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal. The body dies; the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing.

Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.

It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice.

Life's nonsense pierces us with strange relation.