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?

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

We live in our own world , A world that is too small For you to stoop and enter Even on hands and knees, The adult subterfuge.

Sunlight 's a thing that needs a window Before it enter a dark room. Windows don't happen." So two old poets, Hunched at their beer in the low haze Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran Noisily by them, glib with prose.

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

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?

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.