Every story is made of air and only air: The story tellers hand ---doesn't cut timber ---doesn't wound ---the metal ---the stone doesn't dye the fingers blue ---when it writes morning or breeze or blue of a woman. The poem is without palpable matter all there is is noise that goes on rustling in the breath of reading...

You're more beautiful than a silvery
ball of cigarette paper

You're more beautiful than a clear
puddle of water
    in a secret place

You're more beautiful than a zebra
than a wildcat's cub
    than a Boeing 707 in the open air

You're more beautiful than a flowery
    garden along the sea in Norway

You're more beautiful than a oil refinery
    burning at night

You're more beautiful than the sunrise
    than the sapphire-blue sea of Norway

Look
You're as beautiful as the city of Lisbon
    in August
    and almost as beautiful as the 
    Revolution of...