Poetry is the dark side of the moon.
Our dreams are luminous, a cast fire upon the world. Morning arrives and that's it. Sunlight darkens the earth.
It's linkage I'm talking about, and harmonies and structures, And all the various things that lock our wrists to the past.
Novemberโs a burn and an ache.
The ache for anything is a thick dust in the heart.
If you want great tranquility/ It's hard work and a long walk