One Is Always Nearer By Not Keeping

Deep Feeling Doesn't Make For Good Poetry. A Way With Language Would Be A Bit Of Help.

Direct Me Gods, Whose Changes Are All Holy, To Where It Flickers Deep In Grass, The Moly.

My Thoughts Are Crowded With Death And It Draws So Oddly On The Sexual That I Am Confused To Be Attracted By, In Effect, My Own Annihilation.

Thus For Each Blunt-faced Ignorant One The Great Grey Rigid Uniform Combined Safety With Virtue Of The Sun. Thus Concepts Linked Like Chainmail In The Mind.

My Old Teacher's Definition Of Poetry Is An Attempt To Understand.