At the End

B.V.: Some of your poems are surprising in their length. "The Train," "The Spinning Wheel" and "i n't," for example, extend for several dozen pages. Can these still be called poems? Or is it that you arbitrarily stop them? Because they seem as if they could go on forever.

C.T.: Each poem is a gust of air, nothing else. "Zinc," for example, is the symbol of this little gust. The poet is made to arrive at a second, then a third poem...That's the difference between the poet and the madman; the poet is he who ends the poem.