Most Things May Never Happen: This One

The Poetic Impulse Is Distinct From Ideas About Things Or Feelings About Things, Though It May Use These. It's More Like A Desire To Separate A Piece Of One's Experience & Set It Up On Its Own, An Isolated Object Never To Trouble You Again, At Least Not For A Bit. In The Absence Of This Impulse Nothing Stirs.

Life Is First Boredom, Then Fear. Whether Or Not We Use It, It Goes, And Leaves What Something Hidden From Us Chose, And Age, And Then The Only End Of Age.

All The Unhurried Day / Your Mind Lay Open Like A Drawer Of Knives.

Beneath It All, Desire Of Oblivion Runs: Despite The Artful Tensions Of The Calendar, The Life Insurance, The Tabled Fertility Rites, The Costly Aversion Of The Eyes From Death- Beneath It All, Desire Of Oblivion Runs.

Life Has A Practice Of Living You, If You Don't Live It.