At Midnight Tears Run Into Your Ears.

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.

Your Work Is Carved Out Of Agony As A Statue Is Carved Out Of Marble.

Up From The Bronze, I Saw Water Without A Flaw Rush To Its Rest In Air Reach To Its Rest, And Fall.

O Remember In Your Narrowing Dark Hours That More Things Move Than Blood In The Heart.

The Women Rest Their Tired Half-healed Hearts; They Are Almost Well.