You Stupefied Me. We Waxed, Carnivores, Late

The Ellipse Is As Aimless As That, Stretching Invisibly Into The Future So As To Reappear In Our Present. Its Flexing Is Its Account, Return To The Point Of No Return.

Some Certified Nut Will Try To Tell You It's Poetry, (it's Extraordinary, It Makes A Great Deal Of Sense) But Watch Out Or He'll Start With Some New Notion Or Other.

Poetry Is Mostly Hunches.

One Listens To A Piece Of Great Music, Say, And Feels Deeply Moved By It, And Wants To Put This Feeling Into Words, But It Can't Be Put Into Words. That's What - The Music Has Already Supplied The Meaning, And Words Will Just Be Superfluous After That. But It's That Kind Of Verbal Meaning That Can't Be Verbalized That I Try To Get At In Poetry.

The Mind Is So Hospitable, Taking In Everything Like Boarders, And You Don't See Until It's All Over How Little There Was To Learn Once The Stench Of Knowledge Has Dissipated.