The point of poetry, he explains, Is to ease man’s unexpressed pains, Words to soothe, words to arouse- The point of poetry is a cotton blouse, She says, the loosening of silken scarves, And cutting peaches nicely into halves. Below the bright cacophony A Lombard sun stands drawn and taut… He ponders as he holds open the door, I never thought of it like that before- Poetry is always true, he states, Where truth ends there poetry abates- Poetry is only what it must be To entice itself entire to me; A sandstone castle on the comely lake, The curtain rustles heavy lidded eyes awake: I am a woman of ends based philosophy Not the deontological school of thought. He picks up a whisper from the terracotta floor, I never thought of it like that before-
