The eye that sees no dreams. The eye knows it sounds and go to a perception of greatness. From his perspective, the man expands and breaks up to where I've never been aware. In the dream there is no fragmentation of reality, is all. Turner's painting is a dream. Rilke's poetry is a dream. What is seen is a near total, of which we part with boundaries diffuse and labile. And the poet must not fall in anthropomorphizing the cosmos, harmony. Should let forth gently, to get into their mechanisms. In that gear, must be an illusion of his own material. Shall, where the night air already flooded all, when the air is that their cadences in the breath that connects us with the world, what sustains their loyalty to silence.
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