If There Were No Poetry On Any

Not All Things Are Blest, But The Seeds Of All Things Are Blest.

We Sit Here, Very Different Each From The Other, Until The Passion Arrives To Give Us Our Equality, To Make Us Part Of The Play, To Make The Play Part Of Us.

The Heavy Sensual Shoulders, The Thighs, The Blood-born Flesh And Earth Turning Into Color, Rocks Into Their Crystals, Water To Sound, Fire To Form: Life Flickers Uncounted Into The Supple Arms Of Love.

Punctuation Is Biological. It Is The Physical Indication Of The Body-rhythms Which The Reader Is To Acknowledge.

I Remember Mother Saying : Inventors Are Like Poets, A Trashy Lot