The Universe Unfolds In The Body, Which

There Can Be No Society Without Poetry, But Society Can Never Be Realized As Poetry, It Is Never Poetic. Sometimes The Two Terms Seek To Break Apart. They Cannot.

Enormous And Solid But Swaying, Beaten By The Wind But Chained, Murmur Of A Million Leaves Against My Window. Riot Of Trees, Surge Of Dark Green Sounds. The Grove, Suddenly Still, Is A Web Of Fronds And Branches.

The Ideal Of A Single Civilization For Everyone, Implicit In The Cult Of Progress And Technique, Impoverishes And Mutilates Us

Poetry Is Not Truth, It Is The Resurrection Of Presences.

Social Criticism Begins With Grammar And The Re-establishing Of Meanings.