By Daily Dying, I Have Come To

Live In A Perpetual Great Astonishment.

How Body From Spirit Slowly Does Unwind, Until We Are Pure Spirit At The End.

I Am Overwhelmed By The Beautiful Disorder Of Poetry, The Eternal Virginity Of Words.

My Papa's Waltz: The Whiskey On Your Breath Could Make A Small Boy Dizzy; But I Hung On Like Death: Such Waltzing Was Not Easy. We Romped Until The Pans Slid From The Kitchen Shelf; My Mother's Countenance Could Not Unfrown Itself. The Hand That Held My Wrist Was Battered On One Knuckle; At Every Step You Missed My Right Ear Scraped A Buckle. You Beat Time On My Head With A Palm Caked Hard By Dirt, Then Waltzed Me Off To Bed Still Clinging To Your Shirt.

Those Who Are Willing To Be Vulnerable Move Among Mysteries.