To Be Saved Is Here, Local And

Only Silence Perfects Silence.

Even If You Walk Exactly The Same Route Each Time - As With A Sonnet - The Events Along The Route Cannot Be Imagined To Be The Same From Day To Day, As The Poet's Health, Sight, His Anticipations, Moods, Fears, Thoughts Cannot Be The Same.

If We Ask A Vague Question, Such As, 'what Is Poetry?' We Expect A Vague Answer, Such As, 'poetry Is The Music Of Words,' Or 'poetry Is The Linguistic Correction Of Disorder.'

Definition, Rationality, And Structure Are Ways Of Seeing, But They Become Prisons When They Blank Out Other Ways Of Seeing.

I Have A Life That Did Not Become, That Turned Aside And Stopped, Astonished