The descent beckons as the ascent beckoned
The poem is a capsule where we wrap up our punishable secrets.
No ideas but in things.
For the beginning is assuredly the end- since we know nothing, pure and simple, beyond our own complexities.
You lethargic, waiting upon me, waiting for the fire and I attendant upon you, shaken by your beauty Shaken by your beauty Shaken.
A poem is a small machine made of words.