By Daily Dying, I Have

By Daily Dying, I Have Come To Be.

What Is Madness But Nobility Of Soul At Odds With Circumstance?

I Can Hear, Underground, That Sucking And Sobbing, In My Veins, In My Bones I Feel It,- The Small Water Seeping Upward, The Tight Grains Parting At Last. When Sprouts Break Out, Slippery As Fish, I Quail, Lean To Beginnings, Sheath-wet.

I Learn By Going Where I Have To Go.

You Must Believe A Poem Is A Holy Thing, A Good Poem, That Is.