Dead Men Would Start And Move Toward

Who Dreams Of A Son, Save One, Childless, Having No Bright Face To Flatter Its Own, Who Dreams Of A Son?

I Had Drawn Away Into The Salt, Myself, A Shell Emptied Of Life.

You Will Not See That Desire Begets Love, Until It All Flames Into One Concise And Metallic Blaze.

For You Are Abstract, Making No Mistake, Slurring No Word In The Rhythm You Make, The Poem, Writ In The Air.

The Elixir Of Life, The Philosopher's Stone Is Yours If You Surrender Sterile Logic, Trivial Reason.