Death Laid Its Eggs In The Wound

What Matters Most Has An Ultimate Metallic Quality Of Death. The Chasuble And The Wagon Wheel, The Razor And The Prickly Beards Of Shepherds, The Bare Moon, A Fly, Humid Cupboards, Rubble Piles, The Images Of Saints Covered In Lace, Quicklime, And The Wounding Edges Of The Rooflines And Watchtowers.

The Snow Is Falling On The Deserted Field Of My Life, And My Hopes, Which Roam Far, Are Afraid Of Becoming Frozen Or Lost.

Besides Black Art, There Is Only Automation And Mechanization.

While The Poet Wrestles With The Horses On His Brain And The Sculptor Wounds His Eyes On The Hard Spark Of Alabaster, The Dancer Battles The Air Around Her, Air That Threatens At Any Moment To Destroy Her Harmony Or To Open Huge Open Empty Spaces Where Her Rhythm Will Be Annihilated.

What Shall I Say About Poetry? What Shall I Say About Those Clouds, Or About The Sky? Look; Look At Them; Look At It! And Nothing More. Don't You Understand Anything About Poetry? Leave That To The Critics And The Professors. For Neither You, Nor I, Nor Any Poet Knows What Poetry Is.