Between The Vision And The Act Lies

Simple And Faithless As A Smile And Shake Of The Hand.

In The Room The Women Come And Go Talking Of Michelangelo.

No Place Of Grace For Those Who Avoid The Face. No Time To Rejoice For Those Who Walk Among Noise And Deny The Voice.

Bad Poets Imitate, Good Poets Steal.

At The Violet Hour, When The Eyes And Back Turn Upward From The Desk, When The Human Engine Waits Like A Taxi Throbbing Waiting I Tiresias, Though Blind, Throbbing Between Two Lives.