Poetry Is The Harnessing Of The Paradox

Arithmetic Is Where Numbers Fly Like Pigeons In And Out Of Your Head.

Out Of Great Russia Came Three Dusky Syllables Workmen Took Guns And Went Out To Die For: Bread, Peace, Land.

The Dead Hold In Their Hands Only What They Have Given Away.

Pile The Bodies High At Austerlitz And Waterloo. Shovel Them Under And Let Me Work- I Am The Grass; I Cover All. And Pile Them High At Gettysburg. And Pile Them High At Ypres And Verdun. Shovel Them Under And Let Me Work. Two Years, Ten Years,and Passengers Ask The Conductor- What Place Is This? Where Are We Now? I Am The Grass. Let Me Work.

The Drum In A Dream Pounds Loud To The Dreamer.