Each line tallied perfectly into the sum of the last line.
Block: The letters lie buried in an avalanche of whiteness. You can hear only muffled cries, but can’t make out any words.
Poets in New York City read to each other all the time.
Each line filled one with the anticipation of being on a road approaching the skyline of a city never visited before.
Alone in the room, reading in a floor lamp’s cone of light, my hut.
The poet walks alone out onto the springboard of the first line.
I see little difference between poets and the inventors of self-propelled flying machines.
A word is a well of a thousand pictures.