Love drips & gathers, but the fallen blood Shall calm her sores..." -Thomas, The Force that through the green fuse drives the flower.

An alcoholic is someone you don't like who drinks as much as you do.

And books which told me everything about the wasp, except why.

My birthday began with the water - Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name.

This world is half the devil's and my own, Daft with the drug that's smoking in a girl and curling round the bud that forks her eye.

This poem has been called obscure. I refuse to believe that it is obscurer than pity, violence, or suffering. But being a poem, not a lifetime, it is more compressed.

To begin at the beginning: It is a spring moonless night in the small town, starless and bible-black.