Sand. Everywhere. In The Bed, In The

This Is The Feeling For Syllable And Rhythm, Penetrating Far Below The Conscious Levels Of Thought And Feeling, Invigorating Every Word.

…forgive Us, O Lord, We Acknowledge Ourselves As Type Of The Common Man, Of The Men And Women Who Shut The Door And Sit By The Fire; Who Fear The Blessing Of God, The Loneliness Of The Night Of God, The Surrender Required, The Deprivation Inflicted; Who Fear The Injustice Of Men Less Than The Justice Of God; Who Fear The Hand At The Window, The Fire In The Thatch, The Fist In The Tavern, The Push Into The Canal, Less Than We Fear The Love Of God.

It Takes So Many Years To Learn That One Is Dead.

Poetry Is Not An Assertion Of Truth, But The Making Of That Truth More Fully Real To Us.

We Had The Experience But Missed The Meaning. And Approach To The Meaning Restores The Experience In A Different Form.