If the poetry of X was music,
So that it came to him of its own,
Without understanding, out of the wall
.

Or in the ceiling, in sounds not chosen,
Or chosen quickly, in a freedom
That was their element, we should not know
.
That X is an obstruction, a man
Too exactly himself, and that there are words
Better without an author, without a poet,
.

Or having a separate author, a different poet,
An accretion from ourselves, intelligent
Beyond intelligence, an artificial man
.

At a distance, a secondary expositor,
A being of sound, whom one does not approach
Through any exaggeration. From him, we collect.