Permit Me Voyage, Love, Into Your Hands.

The Fact That The Bridge Contains Folk Lore And Other Material Suitable To The Epic Form Need Not Therefore Prove Its Failure As A Long Lyric Poem, With Interrelated Sections.

The Form Of My Poem Rises Out Of A Past That So Overwhelms The Present With Its Worth And Vision That I'm At A Loss To Explain My Delusion That There Exist Any Real Links Between That Past And A Future Worthy Of It.

Love: A Burnt Match Skating In A Urinal.

One Must Be Drenched In Words, Literally Soaked In Them, To Have The Right Ones Form Themselves Into The Proper Pattern At The Right Moment.

[the Essences Of Things] Are Suspended On The Invisible Dimension Whose Vibrance Has Been Denied The Human Eye At All Times Save In The Intuition Of Ecstasy.