Is There A Mechanism Of

It Is Necessary To Reteach A Thing Its Loveliness, To Put A Hand On Its Brow Of The Flower And Retell It In Words And In Touch It Is Lovely Until It Flowers Again From Within, Of Self-blessing.

Prose Is Walking; Poetry Is Flying

The Rest Of My Days I Spend Wandering: Wondering What, Anyway, Was That Sticky Infusion, That Rank Flavor Of Blood, That Poetry, By Which I Lived?

Never Mind. The Self Is The Least Of It. Let Our Scars Fall In Love.

Sometimes It Is Necessary To Reteach A Thing Its Loveliness