If You Have The Words,

Poetry Cannot Afford To Lose Its Fundamentally Self-delighting Inventiveness, Its Joy In Being A Process Of Language As Well As A Representation Of Things In The World.

Once Off The Bush The Fruit Fermented, The Sweet Flesh Would Turn Sour. I Always Felt Like Crying. It Wasn't Fair That All The Lovely Canfuls Smelt Of Rot. Each Year I Hoped They'd Keep, Knew They Would Not. -blackberry Picking

I Shall Gain Glory Or Die.

Even If The Last Move Did Not Succeed, The Inner Command Says Move Again.

There Is Not Built-in Meaning To Anything, We Are Free To Add Any Meaning We Choose To Give It.