The Heroes Of The Present Will Retreat

This Morning Of The Small Snow I Count The Blessings, The Leak In The Faucet Which Makes Of The Sink Time, The Drop Of The Water On Water.

Were All Moving, Moving, Moving. Isnt It Nice?

There Are No Hierarchies, No Infinite, No Such Many As Mass, There Are Only/ Eyes In All Heads,/ To Be Looked Out Of.

One Loves Only Form, And Form Only Comes Into Existence When The Thing Is Born.

The Heroes Of The Present Will Retreat To The Imitation They Are Anyhow.