The Heroes Of The Present Will Retreat

What Can We Do When Even The Public Conveyances Sing? How Can We Go Anywhere, Even Cross-town How Get Out Of Anywhere

Knowledge Is The Harvest Of Attention

Love Is Form, And Cannot Be Without Important Substance

My Life Has Been Given Its Orders: The Seasons Seize The Soul And The Body, And Make Mock Of Any Dispersed Effort. The Hour Of Death Is The Only Trespass

The Poem, For Me, Is Simply The First Sound Realized In The Modality Of Being.