Time Is The School In Which We

And Hence The Poet Must Seek To Be Essentially Anonymous, He Must Die A Little Death Each Morning, He Must Swallow His Toad And Study His Vomit As Baudelaire Studied La Charogne Of Jeanne Duval.

Each Minute Bursts In The Burning Room,the Great Globe Reels In The Solar Fire,spinning The Trivial And Unique Away.(how All Things Flash! How All Things Flare!)what Am I Now That I Was Then?may Memory Restore Again And Againthe Smallest Color Of The Smallest Day:time Is The School In Which We Learn,time Is The Fire In Which We Burn.

Love Is The Tact Of Every Good, The Only Warmth, The Only Peace.

I Got Married The Second Time In The Way That, When A Murder Is Committed, Crackpots Turn Up At The Police Station To Confess The Crime.

How Could I Think The Brief Years Were Enough To Prove The Reality Of Endless Love?