Probably All The Attention To Poetry Results

Once Every Five Hundred Years Or So, A Summary Statement About Poetry Comes Along That We Can't Imagine Ourselves Living Without

The White Sun Like A Moth On A String Circles The Southpole.

The Walk Liberating, I Was Released From Forms, From The Perpendiculars, Straight Lines, Blocks, Boxes, Binds Of Thought Into The Hues, Shadings, Rises, Flowing Bends And Blends Of Sight.

Things Go Away To Return, Brightened For The Passage

With The First Step, The Number Of Shapes The Walk Might Take Is Infinite, But Then The Walk Begins To Define Itself As It Goes Along, Though Freedom Remains Total With Each Step: Any Tempting Side Road Can Be Turned Into An Impulse, Or Any Wild Patch Of Woods Can Be Explored. The Pattern Of The Walk Is To Come True, Is To Be Recognized, Discovered.