There are no hierarchies, no infinite, no such many as mass, there are only/ eyes in all heads,/ to be looked out of.

O.K. I'm running out of appetite. Let this swirl- a bit like Crab Nebula- do for now.

You don't help people in your poems. I've been trying to help people all my life - that's my trouble

Were all moving, moving, moving. Isnt it nice?

A poem is energy transferred from where the poet got it (he will have some several causations), by way of the poem itself to, all the way over to, the reader.

There are no hierarchies, no infinite, no such many as mass, there are only/ eyes in all heads,/ to be looked out of.

This morning of the small snow I count the blessings, the leak in the faucet which makes of the sink time, the drop of the water on water.