Stuff to feast on

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—Say it, no ideas but in things—
nothing but the blank faces of the houses
and cylindrical trees
bent, forked by preconception and accident
split, furrowed, creased, mottled, stained
secret—into the body of the light!
William Carlos Williams

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It is difficult to get the news from poems yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.
William Carlos Williams, poet and physician (1883-1963)