The Truth Is Dark Under

There’s No Preparation For Poetry.

There Are Knives That Glitter Like Altars In A Dark Church Where They Bring The Cripple And The Imbecile To Be Healed. There's A Woden Block Where Bones Are Broken, Scraped Clean--a River Dried To Its Bed

Only Poetry Can Measure The Distance Between Ourselves And The Other.

I Was Already Dozing Off In The Shade, Dreaming That The Rustling Trees Were My Many Selves Explaining Themselves All At The Same Time So That I Could Not Make Out A Single Word. My Life Was A Beautiful Mystery On The Verge Of Understanding, Always On The Verge! Think Of It!

When You Play Chess Alone It's Always Your Move.