The Breath That Sharpens Life Is Life

I Think We Got Much Better Poetry When It Was All Regarded As Sinful Or Subversive, And You Had To Hide It Under The Cushion When Somebody Came In.

Now, Helpless In The Hollow Of An Unarmorial Age, A Trough Of Smoke In Slow Suspended Skeins Above Their Scrap Of History, Only An Attitude Remains: Time Has Transfigured Them Into Untruth. The Stone Finality They Hardly Meant Has Come To Be Their Final Blazon, And To Prove Our Almost-instinct Almost True: What Will Survive Of Us Is Love.

I Have Wished You Something None Of The Others Would.

But O, Photography! As No Art Is, Faithful And Disappointing!

I Didn't Choose Poetry: Poetry Chose Me.