Do We Mean Love, When

The Search For The Means To Put An End To Things, An End To Speech, Is What Enables The Discourse To Continue.

Over, Over, There Is A Soft Place In My Heart For All That Is Over, No, For The Being Over, Words Have Been My Only Loves, Not Many.

I Write About Myself With The Same Pencil And In The Same Exercise Book As About Him. It Is No Longer I, But Another Whose Life Is Just Beginning.

But I Was Not Made For The Great Light That Devours, A Dim Lamp Was All I Had Been Given, And Patience Without End, To Shine It On The Empty Shadows.

To Find A Form That Accommodates The Mess, That Is The Task Of The Artist Now.