Poetry is made by dissolving halos in the ocean of sound. Poetry is the street talk of angels and devils. Poetry is a sofa full of blind singers who have put aside their canes. Poetry is the anarchy of the senses making sense. Poetry is the voice of the fourth person singular.
Poetry is all things born with wings that sing.
A poem should arise to ecstasy, somewhere between speech and song. Poetry is a voice of dissent against the waste of words and the mad plethora of print. Poetry is what exists between the lines. 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.