Goodbye, You Who Are, For Me, The

Go So Deep Into Yourself, You Speak For Everyone.

This One Whom Habit Of Memory Propels To The Ground Of His Making, Sleeper Only The Mortal Sounds Can Sing Awake, This Blessing Love Gives Again Into Our Arms.

The First Step... Shall Be To Lose The Way.

Prose Is Walking; Poetry Is Flying

I Love To Go Out In Late September Among The Fat, Overripe, Icy, Black Blackberries To Eat Blackberries For Breakfast, The Stalks Very Prickly, A Penalty They Earn For Knowing The Black Art Of Blackberry-making; And As I Stand Among Them Lifting The Stalks To My Mouth, The Ripest Berries Fall Almost Unbidden To My Tongue, As Words Sometimes Do, Certain Peculiar Words Like Strengths Or Squinched, Many-lettered, One-syllabled Lumps, Which I Squeeze, Squinch Open, And Splurge Well In The Silent, Startled, Icy, Black Language Of Blackberry - Eating In Late September.