There Was Earth Inside Them,

Rush Of Pine Scent (once Upon A Time), The Unlicensed Conviction There Ought To Be Another Way Of Saying This.

Poetry Is A Sort Of Homecoming.

Reality Is Not Simply There, It Does Not Simply Exist: It Must Be Sought Out And Won.

With Wine And Being Lost, With Less And Less Of Both: I Rode Through The Snow, Do You Read Me I Rode God Far--i Rode God Near, He Sang, It Was Our Last Ride Over The Hurdled Humans. They Cowered When They Heard Us Overhead, They Wrote, They Lied Our Neighing Into One Of Their Image-ridden Languages.

Only One Thing Remained Reachable, Close And Secure Amid All Losses: Language. Yes, Language. In Spite Of Everything, It Remained Secure Against Loss.