Listen, Real Poetry Doesn't Say Anything; It

Guileless And Without Vanity, We Were Still In Love With Ourselves Then. We Felt Comfortable In Our Skins, Enjoyed The News That Our Senses Released To Us, Admired Our Dirt, Cultivated Our Scars, And Could Not Comprehend This Unworthiness. Jealousy We Understood And Thought Natural--a Desire To Have What Somebody Else Had; But Envy Was A Strange, New Feeling For Us.

The World Becomes An Apparently Infinite, Yet Possibly Finite, Card Game. Image Combinations, Permutations, Comprise The World Game.

All The Poems Have Wolves In Them. All But One. The Most Beautiful One Of All. She Dances In A Ring Of Fire And Throws Off The Challenge With A Shrug.

I Think The Highest And Lowest Points Are The Important Ones. Anything Else Is Just...in Between.

Let's Just Say I Was Testing The Bounds Of Reality...