Love Has To Be…flowering Like

I Should Like To Sleep Like A Cat, With All The Fur Of Time, With A Tongue Rough As Flint, With The Dry Sex Of Fire; And After Speaking To No One, Stretch Myself Over The World, Over Roofs And Landscapes, With A Passionate Desire To Hunt The Rats In My Dreams.

The Typewriter Separated Me From A Deeper Intimacy With Poetry, And My Hand Brought Me Closer To That Intimacy Again.

If You Should Ask Me Where I've Been All This Time I Have To Say "things Happen." I Have To Dwell On Stones Darkening The Earth, On The River Ruined In Its Own Duration: I Know Nothing Save Things The Birds Have Lost, The Sea I Left Behind, Or My Sister Crying. Why This Abundance Of Places? Why Does Day Lock With Day? Why The Dark Night Swilling Round In Our Mouths? And Why The Dead?

He Who Does Not Travel, Who Does Not Read, Who Does Not Listen To Music, Who Does Not Find Grace In Himself, She Who Does Not Find Grace In Herself, Dies Slowly.

Poetry Is An Act Of Peace.