After every war someone has to tidy up.
All imperfection is easier to tolerate if served up in small doses.
All is mine but nothing owned, nothing owned for memory, and mine only while I look. All the best have something in common, a regard for reality, an agreement to its primacy over the imagination. Even the richest, most surprising and wild imagination is not as rich, wild and surprising as reality. The task of the poet is to pick singular threads from this dense, colorful fabric. In the most extreme cases, cases well known from ancient and modern history, it even poses a lethal threat to society.