Prose Is Walking; Poetry Is Flying

Never Mind. The Self Is The Least Of It. Let Our Scars Fall In Love.

Perhaps Poetry Will Be The Canary In The Mine-shaft Warning Us Of What's To Come.

I Start Off But I Don't Know Where I'm Going; I Try This Avenue And That Avenue, That Turns Out To Be A Dead End, This Is A Dead End, And So On. The Search Takes A Long Time And I Have To Back-track Often.

The Rest Of My Days I Spend Wandering: Wondering What, Anyway, Was That Sticky Infusion, That Rank Flavor Of Blood, That Poetry, By Which I Lived?

Let Our Scars Fall In Love.