Dead, Hung Up Indoors, The Kingfisher Will

The Poem, For Me, Is Simply The First Sound Realized In The Modality Of Being.

What Can We Do When Even The Public Conveyances Sing? How Can We Go Anywhere, Even Cross-town How Get Out Of Anywhere

The Flowers Are Ravined By Bees, The Fruit Blossoms Are Thrown To The Ground, The Wind The Rain Forces Everything.

The Heroes Of The Present Will Retreat To The Imitation They Are Anyhow.

All That Matters Is That The Thing Be The Thing Of The Thing.