I Love You, What Star Do You

We Are The Ghosts Of The Singing Furies .

The Hiss Was Now Becoming A Roar - The Whole World Was A Vast Moving Screen Of Snow - But Even Now It Said Peace, It Said Remoteness, It Said Cold, It Said Sleep.

The One You Love Leans Forward, Smiles, Deceives You, Opens A Door Through Which You See Dark Dreams.

I Think We've Come To A Kind Of Splinter Period In Poetry. These Tiny Little Bright Fragments Of Observation - And Not Produced Under Sufficient Pressure - Some Of It's Very Skillful, But I Don't Think There's Anywhere A Discernible Major Poet In The Process Of Emerging; Or If He Is, I Ain't Seen Him.

For In This Walk, This Voyage, It Is Yourself, The Profound History Of Your 'self,' That Now As Always You Encounter.