It's in the poem that all words are synonyms,
the archangel soars on the sway of light bulbs,
courteous the drawings
all this while I fire, nervous trigger, the weapon,
the bell chimes the time to genuflect,
the yellow concavity of the plant.
It's in the poem that encyclopaedias are born,
the manner in which leaves are turned,
the illustrations, the passions, the passionflowers, the smell, the dry leaves of books
and the dry leaves. "I know one was left for me
between the pages of Rilke, almond-coloured".
I let the rain fall and the sky fall,
God said that wasn't the temple,
that it ought to have angrier stones, Ezra Pound,
To offer an answer at the poem's sunset it's in the poem that all words are
She had a cross,
the convex rain on her breasts.