I Spit Honey Out Of My Mouth:

We Are Voyagers, Discoverers Of The Not-known, The Unrecorded; We Have No Map; Possibly We Will Reach Haven, Heaven.

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.

I Myself Have Seen The Floating Ships And Nothing Will Ever Be The Same The Shouts, The Harrowing Voices Within The House. I Stand Apart With An Army: My Mind Is Graven With Ships.

Love Has No Charm When Love Is Swept To Earth: You'd Make A Lop-winged God, Frozen And Contrite, Of God Up-darting, Winged For Passionate Flight.

Take What The Old-church Found In Mithra's Tomb, Candle And Script And Bell, Take What The New-church Spat Upon And Broke And Shattered.