I'm Trying To Climb Up

The Poem, For Me, Is Simply The First Sound Realized In The Modality Of Being.

This Morning Of The Small Snow I Count The Blessings, The Leak In The Faucet Which Makes Of The Sink Time, The Drop Of The Water On Water.

What Pudor Pejorocracy Affronts How Awe, Night-rest And Neighborhood Can Rot What Breeds Where Dirtiness Is Law What Crawls Below

All That Matters Is That The Thing Be The Thing Of The Thing.

Knowledge Is The Harvest Of Attention