My Body Was Braille For The Creeping

If Self Is A Location, So Is Love: Bearings Taken, Markings, Cardinal Points, Options, Obstinacies, Dug Heels, And Distance, Here And There And Now And Then, A Stance.

The Aim Of Poetry And The Poet Is Finally To Be Of Service, To Ply The Effort Of The Individual Into The Larger Work Of The Community As A Whole.

The Way We Are Living, Timorous Or Bold, Will Have Been Our Life.

Without Needing To Be Theoretically Instructed, Consciousness Quickly Realizes That It Is The Site Of Variously Contending Discourses.

Once Off The Bush The Fruit Fermented, The Sweet Flesh Would Turn Sour. I Always Felt Like Crying. It Wasn't Fair That All The Lovely Canfuls Smelt Of Rot. Each Year I Hoped They'd Keep, Knew They Would Not. -blackberry Picking