Is there a mechanism of death, that so mutilates existence no one, gets over it not even the dead?

Little sleep's-head sprouting hair in the moonlight, when I come back we will go out together, we will walk out together among, the ten thousand things, each scratched too late with such knowledge, the wages of dying is love.

Perhaps poetry will be the canary in the mine-shaft warning us of what's to come.

When I sleepwalk into your room, and pick you up, and hold you up in the moonlight, you cling to me hard, as if clinging could save us. I think you think I will never die, I think I exude to you the permanence of smoke or stars, even as my broken arms heal themselves around you.

Never mind. The self is the least of it. Let our scars fall in love.

Thats the way it is with poetry: When it is incomprehensible it seems profound, and when you understand it, it is only ridiculous.

Go so deep into yourself, you speak for everyone.