A Poet Never Takes Notes. You Never

No Memory Of Having Starred Atones For Later Disregard, Or Keeps The End From Being Hard.

The Chance Is The Remotest, Of Its Going Much Longer Unnoticed, That I'm Not Keeping Pace With The Headlong Human Race

Than Smoke And Mist Who Better Could Appraise The Kindred Spirit Of An Inner Haze?

The Hurt Is Not Enough: I Long For Weight And Strength. To Feel The Earth As Rough To All My Length

We Ran As If To Meet The Moon.