Time is a storm in which we are all lost.

And yet one arrives somehow, finds himself loosening the hooks of her dress in a strange bedroom-- feels the autumn dropping its silk and linen leaves about her ankles. The tawdry veined body emerges twisted upon itself like a winter wind.

There is no comment on pictures but pictures, on music but music, on poems but poetry. If you do, you do. If you don't, you don't. And that's all there is to that.

O Marvelous! What new configuration will come next? I am bewildered with multiplicity.

Imagination though it cannot wipe out the sting of remorse can instruct the mind in its proper uses.

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.

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