What Else Is Soul But

As Rilke Observed, Love Requires A Progressive Shortening Of The Senses: I Can See You For Miles; I Can Hear You For Blocks, I Can Smell You, Maybe, For A Few Feet, But I Can Only Touch On Contact, Taste As I Devour

The Expression To Write Something Down Suggests A Descent Of Thought To The Fingers Whose Movements Immediately Falsify It.

The Things That Stayed Were Things That Didn't Matter Except They Stayed, Night And Day, All Seasons The Same, And Were Peaceful To A Fault And Boded No Ill But Thought Well Enough Of Themselves To Repeat Their Presences.

And I Am In Retirement From Love.

When Book And Reader's Furrowed Brow Meet, It Isn't Always The Book That's Stupid.