I Like An Ending That's Both A

The Poem Comes In The Form Of A Blessing, Like Rapture Breaking On The Mind.

In My Darkest Night, When The Moon Was Covered And I Roamed Through Wreckage, A Nimbus-clouded Voice Directed Me: "live In The Layers, Not On The Litter." Though I Lack The Art To Decipher It, No Doubt The Next Chapter In My Book Of Transformations Is Already Written. I Am Not Done With My Changes.

The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The Mind.

The Universe Is A Continuous Web. Touch It At Any Point And The Whole Web Quivers.

Not That You Need To Be A Saint To Have Visions Worth Talking About. The Most Effective Prescription, I Suspect, Is To Be A Disciplined Sinner. Perfection, As Valery Noted, Is Work.