Up From The Bronze, I Saw Water

At Midnight Tears Run Into Your Ears.

O God, In The Dream The Terrible Horse Began To Paw At The Air, And Make For Me With His Blows.

Up From The Bronze, I Saw Water Without A Flaw Rush To Its Rest In Air Reach To Its Rest, And Fall.

No More Pronouncements On Lousy Verse. No More Hidden Competition. No More Struggling Not To Be A Square.

The Fact, And The Intuition Or Logic About The Fact, Are Severe Coordinates In Fiction. In The Short Story They Must Cross With Hair-line Precision.