Poetry is not a form but rather a movement toward form.

Indeed, the poetic text emerges progressively in the consciousness of the poet as well as in the mind of the reader who, reading, creates it anew by calling the words to life and movement.

Reading, like poetic creation, occurs in a nonlinear way: the eye perceives the whole graphic landscape by grasping its parts randomly but also mysteriously interrelated.

Our works are material and immaterial white sheets from which words dislocated in space emerge like fatal visions or random appearances revealing secret ways, unions, conflicts, absence of form and movement toward form.

The poetic text emerges there dynamically and nonlinearly, as when it is perceived on the page by the reading eye: of its architectural totality, the isomorphic and structural elements are immediately brought into focus and then, as it goes along, the less obvious articulations are drawn. The moving text is thus a kind of black box not only of reading, but also of rhythm, of breathing, of traversing a space that the poetic page has frozen in itself and that the act of reading liberates each time.

The poet and the reader of poetry are united by the experience of movement toward the form, which is experience of the world: crossing, seeing in part and through, returning to look, having seen without knowing.