Fear Was My Father, Father

The Poet: Would Rather Eat A Heart Than A Hambone.

In This Place Of Light: He Dares To Live Who Stops Being A Bird, Yet Beats His Wings Against The Immense Immeasurable Emptiness Of Things.

Death Was Not. I Lived In A Simple Drowse:hands And Hair Moved Through A Dream Of Wakening Blossoms.rain Sweetened The Cave And The Dove Still Called;the Flowers Leaned On Themselves, The Flowers In Hollows;and Love, Love Sang Toward.

Time Marks Us While We Are Marking Time.

I Long For The Imperishable Quiet At The Heart Of Form.