We Are The Ghosts Of The Singing

I Began By Doing Book Reviews On The Typewriter And Then Went Over To Short Stories On The Machine, Meanwhile Sticking To Pencil For Poetry.

Should I Not Hear, As I Lie Down In Dust, The Horns Of Glory Blowing Above My Burial?

No God Save Self, That Is The Way To Live.

It's Time To Make Love, Douse The Glim; The Fireflies Twinkle And Dim; The Stars Lean Together Like Birds Of A Feather, And The Loin Lies Down With The Limb.

We Were All Born Of Flesh, In A Flare Of Pain. We Do Not Remember The Red Roots Whence We Rose, But We Know That We Rose And Walked, That After A While We Shall Lie Down Again.