We Call Them The Brave Who Likely

What I Write Could Only Be Called Poetry Because There Is No Other Category To Put It.

What Is Our Innocence, What Is Our Guilt? All Are Naked, None Is Safe.

Of The Crow-blue Mussel Shells, One Keeps Adjusting The Ash Heaps; Opening And Shutting Itself Like An Injured Fan.

War Is Pillage Versus Resistance And If Illusions Of Magnitude Could Be Transmuted Into Ideals Of Magnanimity, Peace Might Be Realized.

The Small Tuft Of Fronds Or Katydid Legs Above Each Eye, Still Numbering The Units In Each Group; The Shadbones Regularly Set About The Mouth, To Droop Or Rise