If Millions Are Born Millions

Imagination, The Traitor Of The Mind, Has Taken My Solitude And Slain It.

Seagulls . . . Slim Yachts Of The Element.

We Might Remember ... Not To Fear Death; It Is The Only Way To Be Cleansed.

Well: The Day Is A Poem But Too Much Like One Of Jeffers's, Crusted With Blood And Barbaric Omens Painful To Excess, Inhuman As A Hawk's Cry.

Death's A Fierce Meadowlark: But To Die Having Made / Something More Equal To The Centuries / Than Muscle And Bone, Is Mostly To Shed Weakness.