So The Self Under The Eye Lies,

The Progress Of Any Writer Is Marked By Those Moments When He Manages To Outwit His Own Inner Police System.

The Sea Cries With Its Meaningless Voice, Treating Alike Its Dead And Its Living

And As If Reporting Some Felony To The Police They Let You Know You Were Not John Donne.

In The Pit Of Red You Hid From The Bone-clinic Whiteness But The Jewel You Lost Was Blue.

Nobody Knew The Iron Man Had Fallen. Night Passed.