Each Arrow You Shoot Off Carries Its

With Wine And Being Lost, With Less And Less Of Both: I Rode Through The Snow, Do You Read Me I Rode God Far--i Rode God Near, He Sang, It Was Our Last Ride Over The Hurdled Humans. They Cowered When They Heard Us Overhead, They Wrote, They Lied Our Neighing Into One Of Their Image-ridden Languages.

Poetry Is A Sort Of Homecoming.

There Was Earth Inside Them, And They Dug.

A Nothing We Were, Are, Shall Remain, Flowering: The Nothing--, The No One's Rose.

Read! Read All The Time, The Understanding Will Come By Itself.