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

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.

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

O frost bitten blossoms, That are unfolding your wings From out the envious black branches. Bloom quickly and make much of the sunshine. The twigs conspire against you! Hear hem! They hold you from behind.

Empty pockets make empty heads.

Time is a storm in which we are all lost.

Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.