WORDS IN THE FORM OF CLOUD OF DUST
I open the window overlooking anywhere. The window that opens inward. The wind lifts snapshots mild, towers of dust swirling. They are higher than this house. They are within this paper. Fall and get up. Before you say anything, to fold the sheet disperse. Whirlwinds of echoes aspirated, inspired by their own turn. Now they open in another space. They say not what we said, something else always another, the same thing always. Words of the poem, that never say. It is the poem to tell us.
(Octavio Paz)
http://www.amazon.com/The-Collected-Poems-Octavio-Paz/dp/0811211738