The Grass As Bristly And Stout As

Don't Bite Till You Know If It's Bread Or Stone.

I Keep Feeling That There Isn't One Poem Being Written By Any One Of Us - Or A Book Or Anything Like That. The Whole Life Of Us Writers, The Whole Product I Guess I Mean, Is The One Long Poem - A Community Effort If You Will. It's All The Same Poem. It Doesn't Belong To Any One Writer - It's God's Poem Perhaps. Or God's People's Poem.

Even So, I Must Admire Your Skill. You Are So Gracefully Insane.

I Would Like To Bury All The Hating Eyes Under The Sand Somewhere.

Now I Am Going Back And I Have Ripped My Hand From Your Hand As I Said I Would And I Have Made It This Far.