The Creatures I Seek Do Not Want

We Wake, If We Ever Wake At All, To Mystery, Rumors Of Death, Beauty, Violence.

It Is Difficult To Undo Our Own Damage, And To Recall To Our Presence That Which We Have Asked To Leave. It Is Hard To Desecrate A Grove And Change Your Mind. The Very Holy Mountains Are Keeping Mum. We Doused The Burning Bush And Cannot Rekindle It; We Are Lighting Matches In Vain Under Every Green Tree.

I Am Sorry I Ran From You. I Am Still Running, Running From That Knowledge, That Eye, That Love From Which There Is No Refuge. For You Meant Only Love, And Love, And I Felt Only Fear, And Pain. So Once In Israel Love Came To Us Incarnate, Stood In The Doorway Between Two Worlds, And We Were All Afraid.

The Sensation Of Writing A Book Is The Sensation Of Spinning, Blinded By Love And Daring.

Private Life, Book Life, Took Place Where Words Met Imagination Without Passing Through The World.