A poem is a small machine made out of words.
Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Your knees are a southern breeze.
A new music is a new mind.
Poets are damned but they are not blind, they see with the eyes of angels.
A poem is this:/A nuance of sound/delicately operating/upon a cataract of sense/...the particulars/of a song waking/upon a bed of sound.
But the sea which no one tends is also a garden