Poetry Tempered by the Formula of His Prose

I walk back and forth,along a path that seems quite alone,solitary, but never quite the same. At one end, there is poetry,nearly incomprehensible,hanging by a spider’s threadto familiar shapes and forms,where the path widensas if an infinite yawn,wanting the entire world inside me. at the other end, is prose,tiny yellow flower in the garden,describing inContinue reading “Poetry Tempered by the Formula of His Prose”