I Always Thought That Writing Poetry Was

How Many People Came And Stayed A Certain Time, Uttered Light Or Dark Speech That Became Part Of You Like Light Behind Windblown Fog And Sand Filtered And Influenced By It, Until No Part Remains That Is Surely You.

This Whole Moment Is The Groin Of A Borborygmic Giant Who Even Now Is Rolling Over On Us In His Sleep.

The Term Ignorant Is Indeed Perhaps An Overstatement, Implying As It Does That Something Is Known Somewhere, Whereas In Reality We Are Not Even Sure Of This: We In Fact Cannot Aver With Any Degree Of Certainty That We Are Ignorant. Yet This Is Not So Bad; We Have At Any Rate Kept Our Open-mindedness -- That, At Least, We May Be Sure That We Have -- And Are Not In Any Danger, Or So It Seems, Of Freezing Into The Pious Attitudes Of Those True Spiritual Bigots Whose Faces Are Turned Toward Eternity And Who Therefore Can See Nothing.

Where Then Shall Hope And Fear Their Objects Find?

Will Occur As Time Grows More Open About It.