Art always serves beauty, and beauty is the joy of possessing form, and form is the key to organic life since no living thing can exist without it.

February. Get ink, shed tears. Write of it, sob your heart out, sing, While torrential slush that roars Burns in the blackness of the spring. Go hire a buggy. For six grivnas, Race through the noice of bells and wheels To where the ink and all you grieving Are muffled when the rainshower falls. To where, like pears burnt black as charcoal, A myriad rooks, plucked from the trees, Fall down into the puddles, hurl Dry sadness deep into the eyes. Below, the wet black earth shows through, With sudden cries the wind is pitted, The more haphazard, the more true The poetry that sobs its heart out.

Salvation lies not in the faithfulness to forms, but in the liberation from them.

But what are pity, conscience, or fear To the brazen pair, compared With the living sorcery Of their hot embraces?

As in an explosion, I would erupt with all the wonderful things I saw and understood in this world.

What is laid down, ordered, factual is never enough to embrace the whole truth: life always spills over the rim of every cup.

... the unarmed power of naked truth.