Victory Won't Come To Me

The Ocean, Under The Pulsation Of Lighthouses And Noise Of Bell Buoys, Advances As Usual, Looking As If It Were Not That Ocean In Which Dropped Things Are Bound To Sink-- In Which If They Turn And Twist, It Is Neither With Volition Nor Consciousness.

The Power Of The Visible Is The Invisible.

Below The Incandescent Stars / Below The Incandescent Fruit, / The Strange Experience Of Beauty; / Its Existence Is Too Much; / It Tears One To Pieces / And Each Fresh Wave Of Consciousness / Is Poison.

Of The Crow-blue Mussel Shells, One Keeps Adjusting The Ash Heaps; Opening And Shutting Itself Like An Injured Fan.

A Writer Is Unfair To Himself When He Is Unable To Be Hard On Himself.