Even If The Last Move Did Not

The Main Thing Is To Write For The Joy Of It. Cultivate A Work-lust That Imagines Its Haven Like Your Hands At Night Dreaming The Sun In The Sunspot Of A Breast. You Are Fasted Now, Light-headed, Dangerous. Take Off From Here.

Once I Was On The Job, Once I Had Got Started, I Felt Safe Enough, But The Anticipation Made Me Tense.

But Even So, None Of The News Of These World-spasms Entered Me As Terror.

If Self Is A Location, So Is Love.

It Has As Much To Do With The Energy Released By Linguistic Fission And Fusion, With The Buoyancy Generated By Cadence And Tone And Rhyme And Stanza, As It Has To Do With The Poem's Concerns Or The Poet's Truthfulness.