Poetry Is A Plan For A Slit

Poetry Is A Section Of River-fog And Moving Boat-lights, Delivered Between Bridges And Whistles, So One Says, 'oh!' And Another, 'how?'

I Glory In This World Of Men And Women, Torn With Troubles, Yet Living On To Love And Laugh Through It All.

The Peace Of Great Books Be For You, Stains Of Pressed Clover Leaves On Pages, Bleach Of The Light Of Years Held In Leather.

The Sea Speaks A Language Polite People Never Repeat. It Is A Colossal Scavenger Slang And Has No Respect.

There Is A Warning Love Sends And The Cost Of It Is Never Written Till Long Afterward.