Life Begins To Happen. My

History Has To Live With What Was Here, Clutching And Close To Fumbling All We Had - It Is So Dull And Gruesome How We Die, Unlike Writing, Life Never Finishes.

Their Monument Sticks Like A Fishbone In The City's Throat.

The Scythers, Time And Death, Helmed Locusts, Move Upon The Tree Of Breath

What Can The Dove Of Jesus Give You Now But Wisdom, Exile? Stand And Live, The Dove Has Brought An Olive Branch To Eat.

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.