A . . . Poet Is A

I Have Known Uncertainty: A State Unknown To The Greeks.

I Had Always Thought Of Paradise / In Form And Image As A Library.

I Will Pause To Consider This Eternity From Which The Subsequent Ones Derive.

When Writers Die They Become Books, Which Is, After All, Not Too Bad An Incarnation.

I Thought Of A Labyrinth Of Labyrinths, Of One Sinuous Spreading Labyrinth That Would Encompass The Past And The Future . . . I Felt Myself To Be, For An Unknown Period Of Time, An Abstract Perceiver Of The World.