I Tried Each Thing, Only

I Feel That Poetry Is Going On All The Time Inside, An Underground Stream.

The Soul Is Not A Soul, Has No Secret, Is Small, And It Fits Its Hollow Perfectly: Its Room, Our Moment Of Attention.

All Beauty, Resonance, Integrity, Exist By Deprivation Or Logic Of Strange Position.

And So We Turn The Page Over. To Think Of Starting. This Is All There Is.

Each Servant Stamps The Reader With A Look.