Poetry is made with the syllables of dreams. Poetry is a picture of Ma in her Woolworth bra looking out a window into a secret garden. Poetry is an Arab carrying colored rugs and birdcages through the streets of a great metropolis. A poem can be made of common household ingredients. It fits on a single page yet it can fill a world and fits in the pocket of a heart.
Poetry is pillow-thought after intercourse.
The poet is a street singer who rescues the alleycats of love. Poetry is the distillation of articulate animals calling to each other over a great gulf. Poetry is the dialogue of statues. Poetry is the sound of summer in the rain and of people laughing behind closed shutters down a narrow street. Poetry is the incomparable lyric intelligence brought to bear upon fifty-seven varieties of experience.