Prose Is Walking; Poetry Is

Let Our Scars Fall In Love.

Perhaps Poetry Will Be The Canary In The Mine-shaft Warning Us Of What's To Come.

When I Sleepwalk Into Your Room, And Pick You Up, And Hold You Up In The Moonlight, You Cling To Me Hard, As If Clinging Could Save Us. I Think You Think I Will Never Die, I Think I Exude To You The Permanence Of Smoke Or Stars, Even As My Broken Arms Heal Themselves Around You.

Never Mind. The Self Is The Least Of It. Let Our Scars Fall In Love.

Prose Is Walking; Poetry Is Flying