It's A Terrible Poison, Writing.

We Two Remake Our World By Naming It / Together, Knowing What Words Mean For Us / And For The Other For Whom Current Coin / Is Cold Speech - But We Say, The Tree, The Pool, / And See The Fire In The Air, The Sun, Our Sun, / Anybody's Sun, The World's Sun, But Here, Now / Particularly Our Sun.

…my Solitude Is My Treasure, The Best Thing I Have.

An Odd Phrase, "by Heart," He Would Add, As Though Poems Were Stored In The Bloodstream.

Once Upon A Time, When Men And Women Hurtled Through The Air On Metal Wings, When They Wore Webbed Feet And Walked On The Bottom Of The Sea, Learning The Speech Of Whales And The Songs Of The Dolphins, When Pearly-fleshed And Jewelled Apparitions Of Texan Herdsmen And Houris Shimmered In The Dusk On Nicaraguan Hillsides, When Folk In Norway And Tasmania In Dead Of Winter Could Dream Of Fresh Strawberries, Dates, Guavas And Passion Fruits And Find Them Spread Next Morning On Their Tables, There Was A Woman Who Was Largely Irrelevant, And Therefore Happy.

It's A Terrible Poison, Writing.