Not Until It Starts To Stink Does

One Listens To A Piece Of Great Music, Say, And Feels Deeply Moved By It, And Wants To Put This Feeling Into Words, But It Can't Be Put Into Words. That's What - The Music Has Already Supplied The Meaning, And Words Will Just Be Superfluous After That. But It's That Kind Of Verbal Meaning That Can't Be Verbalized That I Try To Get At In Poetry.

Until Only Infinity Remained Of Beauty

Just Keep Playing, Mastering As You Do The Step Into Disorder This One Meant. Don't You See It's All We Can Do? Meanwhile, Great Fires Arise, As Of Haystacks Aflame. The Dial Has Been Set And That's Ominous, But All Your Graciousness In Living Conspires With It, Now That This Is Our Home: A Place To Be From, And Have People Ask About.

Much That Is Beautiful Must Be Discarded So That We May Resemble A Taller Impression Of Ourselves.

So I Cradle This Average Violin That Knows Only Forgotten Showtunes, But Argues The Possibility Of Free Declamation Anchored To A Dull Refrain.