You Don't Help People In Your Poems.

Love Is Form, And Cannot Be Without Important Substance

And All Now Is War Where So Lately There Was Peace, And The Sweet Brotherhood, The Use Of Tilled Fields.

What Pudor Pejorocracy Affronts How Awe, Night-rest And Neighborhood Can Rot What Breeds Where Dirtiness Is Law What Crawls Below

The Body Whips The Soul. In Its Great Desire It Demands The Elixir In The Roar Of Spring, Transmutations.

I Take Space To Be The Central Fact To Man Born In America. I Spell It Large Because It Comes Large Here. Large And Without Mercy.