The Winter Does What It Can For

It Is Written In The Book Of Usable Minutes That All Things Have Their Center In Their Dying.

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

Somewhere Someone Is Traveling Furiously Toward You, At Incredible Speed, Traveling Day And Night, Through Blizzards And Desert Heat, Across Torrents, Through Narrow Passes. But Will He Know Where To Find You, Recognize You When He Sees You, Give You The Thing He Has For You?

Life Is Beautiful. He Who Reads That As In The Window Of Some Distant, Speeding Train Knows What He Wants, And What Will Befall.

In The Increasingly Convincing Darkness The Words Become Palpable, Like A Fruit That Is Too Beautiful To Eat.