Their Monument Sticks Like A Fishbone In

We Feel The Machine Slipping From Our Hands As If Someone Else Were Steering; If We See Light At The End Of The Tunnel, It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

Sometimes Nothing Is So Solid To Me As Writing - I Suppose That's What A Vocation Means - At Times A Torment, A Bad Conscience, But All In All, Purpose And Direction.

But Sometimes Everything I Write With The Threadbare Art Of My Eye Seems A Snapshot

Those Blessed Structures, Plot And Rhyme-- Why Are They No Help To Me Now I Want To Make Something Imagined, Not Recalled?

The World Is Absolutely Out Of Control Now And Is Not Going To Be Saved By Any Reason Or Unreason.