Walk With The Dead For

All The Unhurried Day / Your Mind Lay Open Like A Drawer Of Knives.

On Me Your Voice Falls As They Say Love Should, Like An Enormous Yes.

Any Memory For The Most Part Depending On Chance.

The Breath That Sharpens Life Is Life Itself.

The Poetic Impulse Is Distinct From Ideas About Things Or Feelings About Things, Though It May Use These. It's More Like A Desire To Separate A Piece Of One's Experience & Set It Up On Its Own, An Isolated Object Never To Trouble You Again, At Least Not For A Bit. In The Absence Of This Impulse Nothing Stirs.