The Facts Of History Have Been Too

And So We Turn The Page Over. To Think Of Starting. This Is All There Is.

The Poem Is Sad Because It Wants To Be Yours, And Cannot Be.

Alone With Our Madness And Favorite Flower We See That There Really Is Nothing Left To Write About. Or Rather, It Is Necessary To Write About The Same Old Things In The Same Way, Repeating The Same Things Over And Over For Love To Continue And Be Gradually Different.

Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

Poetry Is Mostly Hunches.