I Can Draw And Write, And You'd

Love Becomes The Deposit Of The Heart, Analogous In All Degrees To The 'findings' In A Tomb. As In One Will Be Charted The Taken Place Of The Body, The Raiment, The Utensils Necessary To Its Other Life, So In The Heart Of The Lover Will Be Traced, As An Indelible Shadow, That Which He Loves.

We Are But Skin About A Wind, With Muscles Clenched Against Mortality.

And Must I, Perchance, Like Careful Writers, Guard Myself Against The Conclusions Of My Readers?

Yes, We Who Are Full To The Gorge With Misery Should Look Well Around, Doubting Everything Seen, Done, Spoken, Precisely Because We Have A Word For It, And Not Its Alchemy

We Are Adhering To Life Now With Our Last Muscle - The Heart.