Let All The Poison That Lurks In

New Beginnings And New Shoots Spring Again From Hidden Roots Pull Or Stab Or Cut Or Burn, Love Must Ever Yet Return.

Entrance And Exit Wounds Are Silvered Clean, The Track Aches Only When The Rain Reminds. The One-legged Man Forgets His Leg Of Wood, The One-armed Man His Jointed Wooden Arm. The Blinded Man Sees With His Ears And Hands As Much Or More Than Once With Both His Eyes.

The Sap Of Spring In The Young Wood A-stir Will Celebrate With Green The Mother, And Every Song-bird Shout Awhile For Her; But We Are Gifted, Even In November Rawest Of Seasons, With So Huge A Sense Of Her Nakedly Worn Magnificence We Forget Cruelty And Past Betrayal, Heedless Of Where The Next Bright Bolt May Fall.

Strawberries That In Gardens Grow Are Plump And Juicy Fine, But Sweeter Far As Wise Men Know Spring From The Woodland Vine. No Need For Bowl Or Silver Spoon, Sugar Or Spice Or Cream, Has The Wild Berry Plucked In June Beside The Trickling Stream. One Such To Melt At The Tongue's Root, Confounding Taste With Scent, Beats A Full Peck Of Garden Fruit: Which Points My Argument.

Nine-tenths Of English Poetic Literature Is The Result Either Of Vulgar Careerism Or Of A Poet Trying To Keep His Hand In. Most Poets Are Dead By Their Late Twenties.