The First Year Was Like Icing. Then

To The Poet As A Basement Quilt, But Perhaps To Some Reader A Latticework Of Regrets.

We Are Prisoners Of The World's Demented Sink. The Soft Enchantments Of Our Years Of Innocence Are Harvested By Accredited Experience Our Fondest Memories Soon Turn To Poison And Only Oblivion Remains In Season.

The Winter Does What It Can For Its Children.

The Poem Is Sad Because It Wants To Be Yours, And Cannot Be.

It Is Because Everything Is Relative That We Shall Never See In That Sphere Of Pure Wisdom And Entertainment Much More Than Groping Shadows Of An Incomplete Former Existence So Close It Burns Like The Mouth That Closes Down Over All Your Effort Like The Moment Of Death