Nobody Knew The Iron Man Had Fallen.

The Inmost Spirit Of Poetry, In Other Words, Is At Bottom, In Every Recorded Case, The Voice Of Pain – And The Physical Body, So To Speak, Of Poetry, Is The Treatment By Which The Poet Tries To Reconcile That Pain With The World.

And As If Reporting Some Felony To The Police They Let You Know You Were Not John Donne.

The World Rolls Under The Long Thrust Of His Heel. Over The Cage Floor The Horizons Come.

He Was His Own Leftover, The Spat-out Scrag. He Was What His Brain Could Make Nothing Of.

The Dreamer In Her Had Fallen In Love With Me And She Did Not Know It. That Moment The Dreamer In Me Fell In Love With Her And I Knew It