In Nature There Are Few Sharp Lines

Anything Looked At Closely Becomes Wonderful.

Where But In The Very Asshole Of Comedown Is Redemption: As Where But Brought Low, Where But In The Grief Of Failure, Loss, Error Do We Discern The Savage Afflictions That Turn Us Around: Where But In The Arrangements Love Crawls Us Through

If We Ask A Vague Question, Such As, 'what Is Poetry?' We Expect A Vague Answer, Such As, 'poetry Is The Music Of Words,' Or 'poetry Is The Linguistic Correction Of Disorder.'

It's Not A Love Of Poetry Readings That Attracts Those Who Do Come To Them But Theater.

The Poet Exposes Himself To The Risk. All That Has Been Said About Poetry, All That He Has Learned About Poetry, Is Only A Partial Assurance.