An American Is A Complex Of Occasions,

The Body Whips The Soul. In Its Great Desire It Demands The Elixir In The Roar Of Spring, Transmutations.

I Don't Live For Poetry. I Live Far More Than Anybody Else Does.

One Loves Only Form, And Form Only Comes Into Existence When The Thing Is Born.

O.k. I'm Running Out Of Appetite. Let This Swirl- A Bit Like Crab Nebula- Do For Now.

There Is A Grace Of Life Which Is Still Yours, My Dear Europe.