My soul is now her day, my day her night, So I lie down, and so I rise.
Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience, because each poetic experience is unique.
Already old, the question Who shall die? Becomes unspoken Who is innocent?
Keelhaul the poets in the vestry chairs.
Laughter and grief join hands. Always the heart Clumps in the breast with heavy stride; The face grows lined and wrinkled like a chart, The eyes bloodshot with tears and tide. Let the wind blow, for many a man shall die.
To make the child in your own image is a capital crime, for your image is not worth repeating. The child knows this and you know it. Consequently you hate each other.