What if they gave a war and nobody came?

Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.

When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.

Where was I going? I puzzled and wondered about it til I actually enjoyed the puzzlement and wondering.

And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work. I am the grass. I cover all.

There is only one child in the world and the Child’s name is All Children.