I never really got over the fun of making letters.
No need to fear death. There will be a tunnel and light.
Life pulls softly inside your bindings. The pod glows - dear stench.
The man has a theory. The woman has hipbones. Here comes Death.
He came after Homer and before Gertrude Stein, a difficult interval for a poet.
I mean, every thought starts over, so every expression of a thought has to do the same. every accuracy has to be invented... I feel I am blundering in concepts too fine for me.