I Am Working Out The Vocabulary Of

Not All Things Are Blest, But The Seeds Of All Things Are Blest.

I Am Haunted By Interrupted Acts, Introspective As A Leper, Enchanted By A Repulsive Clew, A Gross And Fugitive Movement Of The Limbs. Is This The Love That Shook The Lights To Flame?

Poetry Is, Above All, An Approach To The Truth Of Feeling.

Never To Despise In Myself What I Have Been Taught To Despise. Nor To Despise The Other. Not To Despise The It. To Make This Relation With The It: To Know That I Am It.

Breathe-in Experience, Breathe-out Poetry.