I Feel The Terror Of Idleness, Like

A Poet's Interest In Craft Never Fades, Of Course.

I Know Death Is The Fascinating Snake Under The Leaves, Sliding And Sliding; I Know The Heart Loves Him Too, Can't Turn Away, Can't Break The Spell. Everything Wants To Enter The Slow Thickness, Aches To Be Peaceful Finally And At Any Cost. Wants To Be Stone.

I Don't Ask For The Sights In Front Of Me To Change, Only The Depth Of My Seeing.

My Work Is Loving The World.

Maybe The World, Without Us, Is The Real Poem.