So We Found The End Of Our

It Took The Whole Of Creation To Produce My Foot, My Each Feather: Now I Hold Creation In My Foot.

I Think It Was Milosz, The Polish Poet, Who When He Lay In A Doorway And Watched The Bullets Lifting The Cobbles Out Of The Street Beside Him Realised That Most Poetry Is Not Equipped For Life In A World Where People Actually Die. But Some Is.

The Gash In Its Throat Was Shocking, But Not Pathetic.

The Iron Man Came To The Top Of The Cliff. How Far Had He Walked? Nobody Knows. Where Did He Come From? Nobody Knows. How Was He Made? Nobody Knows. Taller Than A House The Iron Man Stood At The Top Of The Cliff, At The Very Brink, In The Darkness.

The Bush Administration Doesn't Particularly Like Public Participation. It Makes Them Look Bad.