Poetry and the body go together. Hand and hand. Brain and brain. Skin to skin.
And poetry is a body of imagined things. A doll. A strange doll. This is what I am pondering on before I hit the hay tonight: poetry is a stamp and a maker of history, as with all writing. The form poetic verse takes is more like that of a body than prose, however, as the lines are often defined and linked together by enjambment (bones or glue).