Divisions Of The Kind Were Fashionable At

She Grew More And More Silent About What Really Mattered. She Curled Inside Herself Like One Of Those Black Chimney Brushes, The Little Shellfish You See On The Beach, And You Touch Them, And Then Go Inside And Don’t Come Out.

We Could Think Or Feel As We Wished Toward The Characters, Or As The Poet, Discounting History, Invited Us To; We Were The Poet's Guest, His World Was His Own Kingdom, Reached, As One Of The Poems Told Us, Through The 'ring Of Words.

I Like To See Life With Its Teeth Out.

I Had A Cousin Once Who Lived In Your Dictionary, Inside The Binding, And There Was A Tiny Hole Which He Used For A Door, And It Led Out Between Trichotomy And Trick. Now What Do You Think Of That? It Was Only A Few Minutes Walk To Trigger, Then Over The Page To Trinity, Trinket And Trional, And There My Cousin Used To Fall Asleep.

[...] A Morass Of Despair Violence Death With A Thin Layer Of Glass Spread Upon The Surface Where Love, A Tiny Crab With Pincers And Rainbow Shell, Walked Delicately Ever Sideways But Getting Nowhere, While The Sun [...] Rose Higher In The Sky Its Tassels Dropping With Flame Threatening Every Moment To Melt The Precarious Highway Of Glass. And The People: Giant Pathworks Of Colour With Limbs Missing And Parts Of Their Mind Snipped Off To Fit Them Into The Outline Of The Free Pattern.