The Soul Is Not A

The Summer Demands And Takes Away Too Much. /but Night, The Reserved, The Reticent, Gives More Than It Takes

The Ellipse Is As Aimless As That, Stretching Invisibly Into The Future So As To Reappear In Our Present. Its Flexing Is Its Account, Return To The Point Of No Return.

It Is Written In The Book Of Usable Minutes That All Things Have Their Center In Their Dying.

To The Poet As A Basement Quilt, But Perhaps To Some Reader A Latticework Of Regrets.

Extreme Patience And Persistence Are Required, Yet Everybody Succeeds At This Before Being Handed The Surprise Box Lunch Of The Rest Of His Life.