There is no Space or Time Only intensity, And tame things Have no immensity
Poetry is prose bewitched, a music made of visual thoughts, the sound of an idea.
We might have coupled In the bed-ridden monopoly of a moment Or broken flesh with one another At the profane communion table Where wine is spill'd on promiscuous lips We might have given birth to a butterfly With the daily-news Printed in blood on its wings
