Death: The Anaesthetic From Which

What Will Survive Of Us Is Love.

Sex Means Nothing--just The Moment Of Ecstasy, That Flares And Dies In Minutes.

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live.

Most Things May Never Happen: This One Will.

The Poetic Impulse Is Distinct From Ideas About Things Or Feelings About Things, Though It May Use These. It's More Like A Desire To Separate A Piece Of One's Experience & Set It Up On Its Own, An Isolated Object Never To Trouble You Again, At Least Not For A Bit. In The Absence Of This Impulse Nothing Stirs.