Will Occur As Time Grows More Open

I Feel That Poetry Is Going On All The Time Inside, An Underground Stream.

One Can Lose A Good Idea By Not Writing It Down, Yet By Losing It One Can Have It: It Nourishes Other Asides It Knows Nothing Of, Would Not Recognize Itself In, Yet When The Negotiations Are Terminated, Speaks In The Acts Of That Progenitor, And Does Recognize Itself, Is Grateful For Not Having Done So Earlier.

I Lost My Ridiculous Accent Without Acquiring Another

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?

Some Certified Nut Will Try To Tell You It's Poetry, (it's Extraordinary, It Makes A Great Deal Of Sense) But Watch Out Or He'll Start With Some New Notion Or Other.