The Rest Of My Days

It Is Necessary To Reteach A Thing Its Loveliness, To Put A Hand On Its Brow Of The Flower And Retell It In Words And In Touch It Is Lovely Until It Flowers Again From Within, Of Self-blessing.

The Only Sense We Still Respect Is Eyesight, Probably Because It Is So Closely Attached To The Brain. Go Into Any American House At Random, You Will Find Something - A Plastic Flower, False Tiles, Some Imitation Something - Something Which Can Be Appreciated As Material Only If Apprehended By Eyesight Alone. Don't We Go Sightseeing In Cars, Thinking We Can Experience A Landscape By Looking At It Through Glass?

Kiss The Mouth Which Tells You, Here, Here Is The World. This Mouth. This Laughter. These Temple Bones.

Prose Is Walking; Poetry Is Flying

Thats The Way It Is With Poetry: When It Is Incomprehensible It Seems Profound, And When You Understand It, It Is Only Ridiculous.