How shall the heart be reconciled / To its feast of losses?
You must be careful not to deprive the poem of its wild origin.
I like an ending that's both a door and a window.
The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.
When they shall paint our sockets gray And light us like a stinking fuse, Remember that we once could say, Yesterday we had a world to lose.
What makes the engine go? Desire, desire, desire.