Love Begets Love. This Torment

You Must Believe A Poem Is A Holy Thing, A Good Poem, That Is.

Too Much Reality Can Be A Dazzle, A Surfeit;too Close Immediacy An Exhaustion

A Lively Understandable Spirit Once Entertained You. It Will Come Again. Be Still. Wait.

My Truths Are All Foreknown,this Anguish Self-revealed.i'm Naked To The Bone,with Nakedness My Shield.

I Have Come To A Still, But Not A Deep Center, A Point Outside The Glittering Current; My Eyes Stare At The Bottom Of A River, At The Irregular Stones, Iridescent Sandgrains, My Mind Moves In More Than One Place, In A Country Half-land, Half-water. I Am Renewed By Death, Thought Of My Death, The Dry Scent Of A Dying Garden In September, The Wind Fanning The Ash Of A Low Fire. What I Love Is Near At Hand, Always, In Earth And Air.