He Was His Own Leftover, The Spat-out

This House Has Been Far Out At Sea All Night, The Woods Crashing Through Darkness, The Booming Hills, Winds Stampeding The Fields Under The Window Floundering Black Astride And Blinding Wet Till Day Rose; Then Under An Orange Sky The Hills Had New Places, And Wind Wielded Blade-light, Luminous Black And Emerald, Flexing Like The Lens Of A Mad Eye.

The Dreamer In Her Had Fallen In Love With Me And She Did Not Know It. That Moment The Dreamer In Me Fell In Love With Her And I Knew It

Where White Is Black And Black Is White, I Won.

And The Elephant Sings Deep In The Forest-maze About A Star Of Deathless And Painless Peace But No Astronomer Can Find Where It Is.

What’s Writing Really About? It’s About Trying To Take Fuller Possession Of The Reality Of Your Life.