Say it, no ideas but in things - nothing but the blank faces of the houses and cylindrical trees bent, forked by preconception and accident - split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained - secret - into the body of the light!

When I am alone I am happy.

A poem is a small machine made out of words.

If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.

Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.

Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.

A poem is a small machine made of words. . .Its movement is intrinsic, undulant, a physical more than a literary character.