The deep spaces between stars , Fathomless as the cold shadow His mind cast.

To live in Wales is to be conscious at dusk of the spilled blood that went into the making of the wild sky

It is too late to start For destinations not of the heart . I must stay here with my hurt.

The furies are at home in the mirror; it is their address. Even the clearest water, if deep enough can drown. Never think to surprise them. Your face approaching ever so friendly is the white flag they ignore. There is no truce with the furies. A mirror's temperature is always zero. It is ice in the veins. It's camera is an x-ray. It is a chalice held out to you in silent communion, where gaspingly you partake of a shifting identity never your own.

Verse should be as natural As the small tuber that feeds on muck And grows slowly from obtuse soil To the white flower of immortal beauty

Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer Said once about the long toil that goes like blood to the poems making? Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls, Limp as bindweed, if it break at all Life's iron crust Man, you must sweat And rhyme your guts taut, if you'd build Your verse a ladder.

Is there a place here for the spirit ? Is there time on this brief platform for anything other than mind 's failure to explain itself?