Poetry Is A Plan For A Slit

I Have Become Infected, Now That I See How Beautifully A Book Is Coming Out Of All This.

I Have Often Wondered What It Is An Old Building Can Do To You When You Happen To Know A Little About Things That Went On Long Ago In That Building.

Tell No Man Anything, For No Man Listens Yet Hold Thy Lips Ready To Speak.

Out Of Great Russia Came Three Dusky Syllables Workmen Took Guns And Went Out To Die For: Bread, Peace, Land.

Poetry Is A Slipknot Tightened Around A Time-beat Of One Thought, Two Thoughts, And A Last Interweaving Thought There Is Not Yet A Number For.