The Darkness Has It's Own

How Body From Spirit Slowly Does Unwind, Until We Are Pure Spirit At The End.

I Have Come To A Still, But Not A Deep Center, A Point Outside The Glittering Current; My Eyes Stare At The Bottom Of A River, At The Irregular Stones, Iridescent Sandgrains, My Mind Moves In More Than One Place, In A Country Half-land, Half-water. I Am Renewed By Death, Thought Of My Death, The Dry Scent Of A Dying Garden In September, The Wind Fanning The Ash Of A Low Fire. What I Love Is Near At Hand, Always, In Earth And Air.

Wake The Happy Words.

I Bleed My Bones, Their Marrow To Bestowupon That God Who Knows What I Would Know.

The Soul Has Many Motions, Body One.