I Have Often Noticed That After I

Most Of The Dandelions Had Changed From Suns To Moons.

We Are Most Artistically Caged.

Do What Only A True Artist Can Do ... Pounce Upon The Forgotten Butterfly Of Revelation

I Could Also Distinguish The Glint Of A Special Puddle (the One Krug Had Somehow Perceived Through The Layer Of His Own Life), An Oblong Puddle Invariably Acquiring The Same Form After Every Shower Because Of The Constant Spatulate Shape Of A Depression In The Ground. Possibly Something Of The Kind May Be Said To Occur In Regard To The Imprint We Leave In The Intimate Texture Of Space. Twang. A Good Night For Nothing.

Which Arrow Flies For Ever? The Arrow That Has Hit Its Mark.