Writing. Love Is Writing.

The Christos-image Is Most Difficult To Disentangle From Its Art-craft Junk-shop Paint-and-plaster Medieval Jumble Of Pain-worship And Death-symbol.

Cheat Me Not With Time, With The Dull Ache Of Flesh, For All Flesh Turns, Even The Loveliest Ankle And Frail Thigh, To Bitterest Dust.

Until It Seems The Whole City Will Be Covered With Gold Pollen Shaken From The Bell-towers, Lilies Plundered With The Weight Of Massive Bees . . .

Lift Up Our Eyes To You? No, God, We Stare And Stare, Upon A Nearer Thing That Greets Us Here, Death, Violent And Near.

When You Would Think, "what Was The Use Of It," You'll Remember Something You Can't Grasp And You'll Wonder What It Was.