And blue-lung'd combers lumbered to the kill.
Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.
We feel the machine slipping from our hands As if someone else were steering; If we see light at the end of the tunnel, It's the light of the oncoming train.
We are all old-timers, each of us holds a locked razor.
In the end, there is no end.
I'm sure that writing isn't a craft, that is, something for which you learn the skills and go on turning out. It must come from some deep impulse, deep inspiration. That can't be taught, it can't be what you use in teaching.