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

First we have to see. Or first we have to be taught to see. We have to be taught to see here, because here is everywhere, related to everywhere else, and if we don't see, hear, taste, smell and feel in this place - not only will we never know anything but the world of sense will be by that much diminished everywhere.

A poem is a small machine made of words.

When I am alone I am happy.

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

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.

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