What I Write Could Only Be Called

I Never 'plan' A Stanza. Words Cluster Like Chromosomes, Determining The Procedure.

The Enslaver Is Enslaved, The Hater, Harmed.

The Ocean, Under The Pulsation Of Lighthouses And Noise Of Bell Buoys, Advances As Usual, Looking As If It Were Not That Ocean In Which Dropped Things Are Bound To Sink-- In Which If They Turn And Twist, It Is Neither With Volition Nor Consciousness.

We Call Them The Brave Who Likely Were Reluctant To Be Brave.

The Deepest Feeling Always Shows Itself In Silence.