I am in love with poetry. I had studied her before, but never seen lips so red with the fervent ardor of youth, and yet eyes so heavy with the dank cares of the night and the honey lays of the lark. Her face was transfigured, for before it had appeared to me as if hidden behind a veil, like the moon behind the clouds, but when it struck forth and in the clear air and in a cold breeze blew to tingle and shiver the skin...

Blotched with nightmares. The muse is sick. There are terrors creeping and crawling under the air; the heart is beating in each half-stop of an arrest for rhythm. Words clutch precariously for sound and meaning like suffocating life with only an absence of breathing, only a thump in the fields that roll endless green like an endless checkered field of consequence, and the stiff-moving, fast beating, careless gliding and (oh so glimmering in their jagged reflection of moonlight) tipping crescent heads and long, phallic stabbing...

Still it's the grapes. Still it's cheese, and all good food. Breaks and the clutch of juice that lolls to prick sour the tongue and then dribble down the chin and roll down the long neck to coalesce in the absent ardor of the chest and then dry, evaporated into the heights, the little rolling juice-pink clouds of sky.

Oh these liberties of prose! I am the poet of the night. The poet of the few large stars! Such treasures of the ages, I take them all, I spread my fingers through them; I scrunch them between my fingers; I trace them like sands; I feel their moist and cool between my fingers. I look at them, glistening...

Each world is an ardor. The depth goes down to the very chill, frozen tundra of meaning. And then it is the waves rising and pounding down the sea. To all future generations, it is the call of the baying horn that brings such a music the ear can never forget it (and it shudders in all the canals and leaves a permanent impression that carves and cleaves the eardrum, shaping it into ever greater fallacies of play) and I am walking on the water, blowing the trumpet of the covenant, and all the eager hearers crowded on the shore are suffering in feasts of great clutches of bread that is soft and so nourishing to the senses, the calm of the mind...

I will lie an idle book in someone's hand, when the moonlight glistens and gently in the leaves the palm fronds of the wind are jingling like blue-bells amid the grass in the summer when the grain ripens to oats falling and stirring in the air. The quiet lapping of the waves will speak eternity while lips mouth my verses silently, and I will enter into the very body of a love breaking with new vibrations of being. This is the immaculate conception! Eternal birth: eternal verse.