Ports Are Necessities, Like Postage Stamps Or

The Art Of Losing Isn't Hard To Master; So Many Things Seem Filled With The Intent To Be Lost That Their Loss Is No Disaster.

It Is What We Imagine Knowledge To Be: Dark, Salt, Clear, Moving, Utterly Free, Drawn From The Cold Hard Mouth Of The World, Derived From The Rocky Breasts Forever, Flowing And Drawn, And Since Our Knowledge Is Historical, Flowing, And Flown.

I Am In Need Of Music That Would Flow Over My Fretful, Feeling Finger-tips, Over My Bitter-tainted, Trembling Lips, With Melody, Deep, Clear, And Liquid-slow. Oh, For The Healing Swaying, Old And Low, Of Some Song Sung To Rest The Tired Dead, A Song To Fall Like Water On My Head, And Over Quivering Limbs, Dream Flushed To Glow! There Is A Magic Made By Melody: A Spell Of Rest, And Quiet Breath, And Cool Heart, That Sinks Through Fading Colors Deep To The Subaqueous Stillness Of The Sea, And Floats Forever In A Moon-green Pool, Held In The Arms Of Rhythm And Of Sleep.

All My Life I Have Lived And Behaved Very Much Like The Sandpiper - Just Running Down The Edges Of Different Countries And Continents, 'looking For Something'.

The Armored Cars Of Dreams, Contrived To Let Us Do So Many A Dangerous Thing.