I Have Gone Into The Waste Lonely

In The Kingdom Of Bang And Blab.

And What A Congress Of Stinks!- Roots Ripe As Old Bait, Pulpy Stems, Rank, Silo-rich, Leaf Mold, Manure, Lime, Piled Against Slippery Planks, Nothing Would Give Up Life: Even The Dirt Kept Breathing A Small Breath.

You Must Believe: A Poem Is A Holy Thing - A Good Poem, That Is. The Poem, Even A Short Time After Being Written, Seems No Miracle; Unwritten, It Seems Something Beyond The Capacity Of The Gods.

The Body And The Soul Know How To Play In That Dark World Where Gods Have Lost Their Way.

I Have Gone Into The Waste Lonely Places