Poetry is white 
it comes dripping out of the water 
it gets wrinkled and piles up 
We have to stretch out the skin of this planet 
We have to iron the sea in its whiteness 
The hands go on and on 
and so things are made 
the hands make the world every day 
fire unites with steel 
linen, canvas and calico come back 
from combat in the laundry 
and from the light a dove is born 
purity comes back from the soap suds.