I am the poet of the true reality—
not the shared dream, communal illusion...

For all time,
the rain was pouring—yet I stayed dry...

The word
Like a genre or species...

When you were lost in darkness
I found you...

Am I a gem wrapped in cotton balls,
or a worm, inside the flesh of an apple...

A kiss hit me like a clout
and I instantly forgot my own whereabout...

Alas my dear
I am still the Ozymandias...

All my ventures in the flesh of grapes
were because...

Imperfection is
the prove of perfection...

The bouquet of wild white flowers
that I tendered you...

O father where have your fever gone?
Where have your wisdom gone...

Fire is flaring
and moths are exchanging their wings...