We Prove, We Do Not Explain, Our

Poetry Is The Art Of Creating Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads.

Concurring Hands Divide Flax For Damask That When Bleached By Irish Weather Has The Silvered Chamois-leather Water-tightness Of A Skin.

One Writes Because One Has A Burning Desire To Objectify What It Is Indispensable To One's Happiness To Express.

Your Thorns Are The Best Part Of You.

... Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads In Them ... ... If You Demand On One Hand, The Raw Material Of Poetry In All Its Rawness And That Which Is On The Other Hand Genuine, Then You Are Interested In Poetry.