The Brassy Wood-pigeons Bubble Their Colourful Voices,

And As If Reporting Some Felony To The Police They Let You Know You Were Not John Donne.

The World Rolls Under The Long Thrust Of His Heel. Over The Cage Floor The Horizons Come.

He Could Not Stand. It Was Not That He Could Not Thrive, He Was Born With Everything But The Will – That Can Be Deformed, Just Like A Limb. Death Was More Interesting To Him. Life Could Not Get His Attention.

There Is No Better Way To Know Us Than As Two Wolves, Come Separately To A Wood.

...imagine What You Are Writing About. See It And Live It. Do Not Think It Up Laboriously, As If You Were Working Out Mental Arithmetic. Just Look At It, Touch It, Smell It, Listen To It, Turn Yourself Into It. When You Do This, The Words Look After Themselves, Like Magic.