Perhaps Poetry Will Be The

This One Whom Habit Of Memory Propels To The Ground Of His Making, Sleeper Only The Mortal Sounds Can Sing Awake, This Blessing Love Gives Again Into Our Arms.

Second-hand Gloves Will Become Lovely Again, Their Memories Are What Give Them The Need For Other Hands. And The Desolation Of Lovers Is The Same: That Enormous Emptiness Carved Out Of Such Tiny Beings As We Are Asks To Be Filled; The Need For The New Love Is Faithfulness To The Old.

Let Our Scars Fall In Love.

Turn On The Dream You Lived Through The Unwavering Gaze. It Is As You Thought: The Living Burn. In The Floating Days May You Discover Grace.

Go So Deep Into Yourself, You Speak For Everyone.