The First Step In The

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?

Let Our Scars Fall In Love.

Prose Is Walking; Poetry Is Flying

I Love To Go Out In Late September Among The Fat, Overripe, Icy, Black Blackberries To Eat Blackberries For Breakfast, The Stalks Very Prickly, A Penalty They Earn For Knowing The Black Art Of Blackberry-making; And As I Stand Among Them Lifting The Stalks To My Mouth, The Ripest Berries Fall Almost Unbidden To My Tongue, As Words Sometimes Do, Certain Peculiar Words Like Strengths Or Squinched, Many-lettered, One-syllabled Lumps, Which I Squeeze, Squinch Open, And Splurge Well In The Silent, Startled, Icy, Black Language Of Blackberry - Eating In Late September.

The First Step... Shall Be To Lose The Way.