Much that is beautiful must be discarded So that we may resemble a taller Impression of ourselves.
The winter does what it can for its children.
And so we turn the page over. To think of starting. This is all there is.
Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision
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
I feel that poetry is going on all the time inside, an underground stream.