The world boiled down to a drop

From a nice (if much too short) interview with the great new poet Vera [corrected] Pavlova:

There’s a line in Zora Neale Hurston’s novel Their Eyes Were Watching God
that reads: “She didn’t realize she was the world and the heavens
boiled down to a drop.” Your poems feel that way to me—tiny verses with
the glint of whole galaxies in them. How does this relate to the
purpose you find in poetry?

I thank you for a nice quotation and for your subtle understanding
of my poems. Indeed, this is how I understand the purpose of poetry: to
boil the universe down to the size of a poem, a novel down to eight
lines. An ideal poem, just as the DNA, contains all the information
about its author.

I love this woman/poet. Is that wrong?

Here's another of her tiny masterpieces: 

I broke your heart
now barefoot I tread
on shards