In Eden who sleeps happiest? The serpent.
I know when dark-haired evening put on her bright silk at sunset, and, folding the sea sidled under the sheet with her starry laugh, that there'd be no rest, there'd be no forgetting. Is like telling mourners round the graveside about resurrection, they want the dead back.
The truth is that the poems are ecstatic.
The first thing we have to do is get rid of the pentameter. To ditch the pentameter.
The future happens. No matter how much we scream.
Peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.