You Must Believe A Poem Is A

I Wake To Sleep, And Take My Waking Slow. I Feel My Fate In What I Cannot Fear. I Learn By Going Where I Have To Go.

Should We Say The Self, Once Perceived, Becomes The Soul?

The Stones Were Sharp, The Wind Came At My Back; Walking Along The Highway, Mincing Like A Cat.

Art Is Our Defense Against Hysteria And Death.

Being, Not Doing, Is My First Joy.