Poetry Must Be As New As Foam

I Am A Book I Neither Wrote Nor Read.

Whence, If Ever, Shall Come The Actualityof A Voice Speaking The Mind's Knowing,the Sunlight Bright On The Green Windowshade,and The Self Articulate, Affectionate, And Flowing,ease, Warmth, Light, The Utter Showing,when In The White Bed All Things Are Made.

And Hence The Poet Must Seek To Be Essentially Anonymous, He Must Die A Little Death Each Morning, He Must Swallow His Toad And Study His Vomit As Baudelaire Studied La Charogne Of Jeanne Duval.

What Was The Freedom To Which The Adult Human Being Rose In The Morning, If Each Act Was Held Back Or Inspired By The Overpowering Ghost Of A Little Child?

Even Paranoids Have Real Enemies.