Art Is Our Defense Against Hysteria And

What We Need Is More People Who Specialize In The Impossible.

I Can Hear, Underground, That Sucking And Sobbing, In My Veins, In My Bones I Feel It,- The Small Water Seeping Upward, The Tight Grains Parting At Last. When Sprouts Break Out, Slippery As Fish, I Quail, Lean To Beginnings, Sheath-wet.

Being, Not Doing, Is My First Joy.

And I Rejoiced In Being What I Was.

Too Much Reality Can Be A Dazzle, A Surfeit;too Close Immediacy An Exhaustion