Ah, Grief Makes Us Precise!

Your Body Will Never Be Familiar.

My Heart Sings Of Your Longing For Me, And My Thoughts Climb Down To Marvel At Your Mercy. I Do Not Fear As You Gather Up My Days. Your Name Is The Sweetness Of Time, And You Carry Me Close Into The Night, Speaking Consolations, Drawing Down Lights From The Sky, Saying, See How The Night Has No Terrors For One Who Remembers The Name.

Although Only One Man May Be Receiving The Favors Of A Woman, All Men In Her Presence Are Warmed.

I Speak Of A Clinical Depression That Is The Background Of Your Entire Life, A Background Of Anguish And Anxiety, A Sense That Nothing Goes Well, That Pleasure Is Unavailable And All Your Strategies Collapse.

Poetry Is A Verdict Rather Than An Intention.