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Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Which sky? The sky where Watteau hung a lady's slipper.
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In summer, the song sings itself.
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If they give you lined paper, write the other way.
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Their time past, pulled down cracked and flung to the fire go up in a roar All recognition lost, burnt clean clean in the flame, the green dispersed, a living red, flame red, red as blood wakes on the ash--
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By listening to his language of his locality the poet begins to learn his craft. It is his function to lift, by use of imagination and the language he hears, the material conditions and appearances of his environment to the sphere of the intelligence where they will have new currency.
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