You stupefied me. We waxed, Carnivores, late and alight In the beaded winter. All was ominous, luminous.

The ellipse is as aimless as that, Stretching invisibly into the future so as to reappear In our present. Its flexing is its account, Return to the point of no return.

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night....

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.

The soul establishes itself. But how far can it swim out through the eyes And still return safely to its nest?

Will occur as time grows more open about it.

We are prisoners of the world's demented sink. The soft enchantments of our years of innocence Are harvested by accredited experience Our fondest memories soon turn to poison And only oblivion remains in season.

The soul is not a soul, Has no secret, is small, and it fits Its hollow perfectly: its room, our moment of attention.