All Poetry Is Putting The Infinite Within

Mid The Sharp, Short Emerald Wheat, Scarce Risen Three Fingers Well, The Wild Tulip At The End Of Its Tube, Blows Out Its Great Red Bell, Like A Thin Clear Bubble Of Blood, For The Children To Pick And Sell.

Generations Pass While Some Tree Stands, And Old Families Last Not Three Oaks.

The Candid Incline To Surmise Of Late That The Christian Faith Proves False.

Where The Apple Reddens Never Pry - Lest We Lose Our Edens, Eve And I.

God Is The Perfect Poet.