The Northern Lights Rise Like A Kiss

Je Est Un Autre. (i Is Someone Else).

The Poet, Therefore, Is Truly The Thief Of Fire. He Is Responsible For Humanity, For Animals Even; He Will Have To Make Sure His Visions Can Be Smelled, Fondled, Listened To; If What He Brings Back From Beyond Has Form, He Gives It Form; If It Has None, He Gives It None. A Language Must Be Found…of The Soul, For The Soul And Will Include Everything: Perfumes, Sounds Colors, Thought Grappling With Thought

It Was The Voice Of Mad Seas, Roaring Immense,/ That Shattered Your Infant Breast, Too Soft, Too Human.

What An Old Maid I'm Getting To Be. Lacking The Courage To Be In Love With Death!

But, Truly, I Have Wept Too Much! The Dawns Are Heartbreaking. Every Moon Is Atrocious And Every Sun Bitter.