The Bogholes Might Be Atlantic Seepage. The

Between My Finger And My Thumb The Squat Pen Rests; Snug As A Gun. ~from The Poem "digging

Don't Be Surprised If I Demur, For, Be Advised My Passport's Green.

My Body Was Braille For The Creeping Influences.

Sink Every Impulse Like A Bolt. Secure The Bastion Of Sensation. Do Not Waver Into Language. Do Not Waver In It.

Poetry Is Always Slightly Mysterious, And You Wonder What Is Your Relationship To It.