The Heroes Of The Present Will Retreat

Of Rhythm Is Image / Of Image Is Knowing / Of Knowing There Is / A Construct

I Take Space To Be The Central Fact To Man Born In America. I Spell It Large Because It Comes Large Here. Large And Without Mercy.

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

There Is A Grace Of Life Which Is Still Yours, My Dear Europe.

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.