One Critic Wrote . . . That

The Supreme Morality Of Art Is To Endure.

How Shall The Heart Be Reconciled / To Its Feast Of Losses?

The Poem In The Head Is Always Perfect. Resistance Begins When You Try To Convert It Into Language.

In A Murderous Time/the Heart Breaks And Breaks/and Lives By Breaking.

In My Darkest Night, When The Moon Was Covered And I Roamed Through Wreckage, A Nimbus-clouded Voice Directed Me: "live In The Layers, Not On The Litter." Though I Lack The Art To Decipher It, No Doubt The Next Chapter In My Book Of Transformations Is Already Written. I Am Not Done With My Changes.