Each Servant Stamps The Reader With A

Not Until It Starts To Stink Does The Inevitable Happen.

I Want A Bedroom Near The Sky, An Astrologer's Cave Where I Can Fashion Eclogues That Are Chaste And Grave.

And We May Be Led, Then, Upward Through More Powerful Forms Of Poetry, Past Columns With Peeling Posters On Them, To The Country Of Indifference. Meanwhile If The Swell Diapasons, Blooms Unhappily And Too Soon, The Little People Are Nonetheless Real.

But Always And Sometimes Questioning The Old Modes And The New Wondering, The Poem, Growing Up Through The Floor, Standing Tall In Tubers, Invading And Smashing The Ritual Parlor, Demands To Be Met On Its Own Terms Now, Now That The Preliminary Negotiations Are At Last Over.

Each Servant Stamps The Reader With A Look.