Its a bit mad. Too bad, I mean, that getting to know each just for a fleeting second Must be replaced by unperfect knowledge of the featureless whole Like some pocket history of the world, so general As to constitute a sob or wail

The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...

Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.

I often wonder if I am suffering from some mental dysfunction because of how weird and baffling my poetry seems to so many people and sometimes to me too.

Where then shall hope and fear their objects find?

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night.

Will occur as time grows more open about it.