Nothing Happens... But First A Dream.

I Can Remember Only A Few Of The Strange And Curious Words Now Dead But Living And Spoken By The English People A Thousand Years Ago.

Tongues Wrangled Dark At A Man. He Buttoned His Overcoat And Stood Alone. In A Snowstorm, Red Hollyberries, Thoughts, He Stood Alone.

Pile The Bodies High At Austerlitz And Waterloo. Shovel Them Under And Let Me Work. I Am The Grass. I Cover All.

Poetry Is A Shuffling Of Boxes Of Illusions Buckled With A Strap Of Facts.

There Was Always The Consolation That If I Didn't Like What I Wrote I Could Throw It Away Or Burn It.