Around, around the sun we go: The moon goes round the earth. We do not die of death: We die of vertigo.
And here face down beneath the sun And here upon earth's noonward height To feel the always coming on The always rising of the night
A poem should be palpable and mute As a globed fruit, Dumb As old medallions to the thumb, Silent as the sleeve-worn stone Of casement ledges where the moss has grown— A poem should be wordless As the flight of birds. A poem should be motionless in...
A poem should not mean But be.
