Let Our Scars Fall In Love.

Prose Is Walking; Poetry Is Flying

To Me, Poetry Is Somebody Standing Up, So To Speak, And Saying, With As Little Concealment As Possible, What It Is For Him Or Her To Be On Earth At This Moment

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.

Let Our Scars Fall In Love.

The Bud Stands For All Things, Even For Those Things That Don't Flower