This Morning Of The Small

There Are No Hierarchies, No Infinite, No Such Many As Mass, There Are Only/ Eyes In All Heads,/ To Be Looked Out Of.

My Life Has Been Given Its Orders: The Seasons Seize The Soul And The Body, And Make Mock Of Any Dispersed Effort. The Hour Of Death Is The Only Trespass

The Heroes Of The Present Will Retreat To The Imitation They Are Anyhow.

A Poem Is Energy Transferred From Where The Poet Got It (he Will Have Some Several Causations), By Way Of The Poem Itself To, All The Way Over To, The Reader.

We All Want What's Been Suddenly Disallowed.