What Can The Dove Of Jesus Give

It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone; Peace To Our Children When They Fall In Small War On The Heel Of Small War--until The End Of Time To Police The Earth, A Ghost Orbiting Forever Lost In Our Monotonous Sublime

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.

And Blue-lung'd Combers Lumbered To The Kill.

Poetry Is Not The Record Of An Event: It Is An Event.