What power has love but forgiveness?

To refine, to clarify, to intensify that eternal moment in which we alone live there is but a single force the imagination.

It is not what you say that matters but the manner in which you say it; there lies the secret of the ages.

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!

Death will be too late to bring us aid.

The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.

A poem is a small machine made of words.