I Left Parts Of Myself

Only Brooms Know The Devil Still Exists, That The Snow Grows Whiter After A Crow Has Flown Over It

There Are Knives That Glitter Like Altars In A Dark Church Where They Bring The Cripple And The Imbecile To Be Healed. There's A Woden Block Where Bones Are Broken, Scraped Clean--a River Dried To Its Bed

If The Sky Falls They Shall Have Clouds For Supper.

I Was Already Dozing Off In The Shade, Dreaming That The Rustling Trees Were My Many Selves Explaining Themselves All At The Same Time So That I Could Not Make Out A Single Word. My Life Was A Beautiful Mystery On The Verge Of Understanding, Always On The Verge! Think Of It!

A Poem Is An Instant Of Lucidity In Which The Entire Organism Participates.