The Damage Of Teaching: The Constant Contact

I Came To Love, I Came Into My Own.

Over Every Mountain There Is A Path, Although It May Not Be Seen From The Valley.

I Can Hear, Underground, That Sucking And Sobbing, In My Veins, In My Bones I Feel It,- The Small Water Seeping Upward, The Tight Grains Parting At Last. When Sprouts Break Out, Slippery As Fish, I Quail, Lean To Beginnings, Sheath-wet.

The Body And The Soul Know How To Play In That Dark World Where Gods Have Lost Their Way.

I Learn By Going Where I Have To Go.