Poetry demands a different material than prose. It uses another facet of the same fact... the spontaneous conformation of language as it is heard.

Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Your knees are a southern breeze.

What "love" is I don't know if it's not the response of our deepest natures to one another.

Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.

The pure products of America go crazy--mountain folk from Kentucky or the ribbed north end of Jersey with its isolate lakes and valleys, its deaf-mutes, thieves.

There is no thing that with a twist of the imagination cannot be something else. Porpoises risen in a green sea, the wind at nightfall bending the rose- red grasses and you- in your apron hurrying to catch- say it seems to you to be your son. How ridiculous! You will pass up into a cloud and look back at me, not count the scribbling foolish that put wings at your heels, at your knees.

As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.