All The Poems Of Our Lives Are

There Is Also, In Any History, The Buried, The Wasted, And The Lost.

I Hear The Singing Of The Lives Of Women. They Clear Mystery, The Offering, And Pride.

The Heavy Sensual Shoulders, The Thighs, The Blood-born Flesh And Earth Turning Into Color, Rocks Into Their Crystals, Water To Sound, Fire To Form: Life Flickers Uncounted Into The Supple Arms Of Love.

Dogma And Shrinking From The External World Are At One Limit Of The Range Of Belief. At The Other Are Science And Poetry And, Indeed, Reality.

How Can I Look Back And Not Speak Of The Stupid Learning About Birth? Of The Stupid Learning That People Make Love, And How It Seemed The Reason For All Things, The Intimacy Of My Wondering, The Illumination That To An Adolescent Was The Cause For Life Around Me, The Reason Why The Unhappy People I Knew Did Not Kill Themselves?