We Control The Content Of Our Dreams.

One Joins The Movement In A Valueless World, Choosing It, Till Both Hurler And The Hurled, One Moves As Well, Always Toward, Toward.

I Don't Think Of Sex As A Self-destructive Impulse.

Direct Me Gods, Whose Changes Are All Holy, To Where It Flickers Deep In Grass, The Moly.

The Painter Saw What Was, An Alternate Candor And Secrecy Inside The Skin.

Thus For Each Blunt-faced Ignorant One The Great Grey Rigid Uniform Combined Safety With Virtue Of The Sun. Thus Concepts Linked Like Chainmail In The Mind.