What We Suffer, What We

Perhaps This Very Instant Is Your Time.

I Cannot Believe That The Inscrutable Universe Turns On An Axis Of Suffering; Surely The Strange Beauty Of The World Must Somewhere Rest On Pure Joy!

The Measured Blood Beats Out The Year's Delay.

I'll Lie Here And Learn How, Over Their Ground, Trees Make A Long Shadow And A Light Sound.

The Poem Is Always The Last Resort. In It The Poet Makes A World In Little, And Finds Peace, Even Though, Under Complete Focused Emotion, The Evocation Be Far More Bitter Than Reality, Or Far More Lovely.