O.k. I'm Running Out Of Appetite. Let

My Life Has Been Given Its Orders: The Seasons Seize The Soul And The Body, And Make Mock Of Any Dispersed Effort. The Hour Of Death Is The Only Trespass

I Defer To All These Other American Poets Who, For Some Reason, I Both Envy And Admire.

Not One Death But Many, Not Accumulation But Change, The Feed-back Proves, The Feed-back Is The Law

O.k. I'm Running Out Of Appetite. Let This Swirl- A Bit Like Crab Nebula- Do For Now.

This Morning Of The Small Snow I Count The Blessings, The Leak In The Faucet Which Makes Of The Sink Time, The Drop Of The Water On Water.