Not Until It Starts To Stink Does

Part Of The Strength Of Pollock And Rothko's Art, In Fact, Is This Doubt As To Whether Art May Be There At All.

Reading Is A Pleasure, But To Finish Reading, To Come To The Blank Space At The End, Is Also A Pleasure.

And The Way Though Discontinuous, And Intermittent, Sometimes Not Heard Of For Years At A Time, Did, Nonetheless, Move Up, Although, To His Surprise It Was Inside The House, And Always Getting Narrower.

And We May Be Led, Then, Upward Through More Powerful Forms Of Poetry, Past Columns With Peeling Posters On Them, To The Country Of Indifference. Meanwhile If The Swell Diapasons, Blooms Unhappily And Too Soon, The Little People Are Nonetheless Real.

I Want A Bedroom Near The Sky, An Astrologer's Cave Where I Can Fashion Eclogues That Are Chaste And Grave.