What Is Poetry Which Does Not Save

The Child Who Dwells Inside Us Trusts That There Are Wise Men Somewhere Who Know The Truth.

Grow Your Tree Of Falsehood From A Small Grain Of Truth.

I Imagine The Earth When I Am No More: Women's Dresses, Dewy Lilacs, A Song In The Valley. Yet The Books Will Be There On The Shelves, Well Born, Derived From People, But Also From Radiance, Heights.

I Liked Beaches, Swimming Pools, And Clinics For There They Were The Bone Of My Bone, Flesh Of My Flesh. I Pitied Them And Myself, But This Will Not Protect Me. The Word And The Thought Are Over.

You Who Think Of Us: They Lived Only In Delusion... Know That We The People Of The Book, Will Never Die!