I Don't Think I Write Well -

One Of The Quainter Quirks Of Life Is That We Shall Never Know Who Dies On The Dame Day As We Do Ourselves.

The Poetic Impulse Is Distinct From Ideas About Things Or Feelings About Things, Though It May Use These. It's More Like A Desire To Separate A Piece Of One's Experience & Set It Up On Its Own, An Isolated Object Never To Trouble You Again, At Least Not For A Bit. In The Absence Of This Impulse Nothing Stirs.

Living In England Has No Such Excuse: These Are My Customs And Establishments.

Parting Is A Training Streamer,lingering Like Leaves In Autumn.

Only In Books The Flat And Final Happens, Only In Dreams We Meet And Interlock.