Poetry Is A Plan For A Slit

Poetry Is A Section Of River-fog And Moving Boat-lights, Delivered Between Bridges And Whistles, So One Says, 'oh!' And Another, 'how?'

Pile The Bodies High At Austerlitz And Waterloo. Shovel Them Under And Let Me Work. I Am The Grass. I Cover All.

To Work Hard, To Live Hard, To Die Hard, And Then Go To Hell After All Would Be Too Damned Hard.

Why Does A Hearse Horse Snicker, Hauling A Lawyer Away?

Poetry Is The Harnessing Of The Paradox Of Earth Cradling Life And Then Entombing It.