Teach me, like you, to drink creation whole/ And casting out myself, become a soul.
Whatever pains disease may bring Are but the tangy seasoning To Loves delicious fare.
Step off assuredly into the blank of your mind. Something will come to you.
There is a poignancy in all things clear, In the stare of the deer, in the ring of a hammer in the morning. Seeing a bucket of perfectly lucid water We fall to imagining prodigious honesties.
Composition for me is, externally at least, scarcely distinguishable from catatonia.
That's the main business of the poem!-to see if you can't make up a language that sets all your selves talking at once-all of them being fair to each other.