The Visible Exhausts Me. I

Wake The Happy Words.

Art Is The Means We Have Of Undoing The Damage Of Haste. It's What Everything Else Isn't.

I Can Hear, Underground, That Sucking And Sobbing, In My Veins, In My Bones I Feel It,- The Small Water Seeping Upward, The Tight Grains Parting At Last. When Sprouts Break Out, Slippery As Fish, I Quail, Lean To Beginnings, Sheath-wet.

Fear Was My Father, Father Fear. His Look Drained The Stones.

Over Every Mountain There Is A Path, Although It May Not Be Seen From The Valley.