In My Garden The Winds Have Beaten

Who Dreams Of A Son, Save One, Childless, Having No Bright Face To Flatter Its Own, Who Dreams Of A Son?

Our Minds Can Go No Further. The Human Imagination Is Capable Of No Further Expression Of Beauty Than The Carved Owl Of Athene, The Archaic, Marble Serpent, The Arrogant Selfish Head Of The Acropolis Apollo.

Pompeii Has Nothing To Teach Us, We Know Crack Of Volcanic Fissure, Slow Flow Of Terrible Lava, Pressure On Heart, Lungs, The Brain About To Burst Its Brittle Case (what The Skull Can Endure!)

Writing. Love Is Writing.

My Eye-balls Are Glass, My Limbs Marble, My Face Fixed In Its Marble Mask.