You began in one country. Attempted transcendence in a second. Failed, for inscrutable reasons, in a third (where homelessness began).

Pick up your slip of stone, and stand outside the grid. Know that there will be other less desperate, dispiriting hours.

Know also that the stone is your heart, which will insist on being played again and again till it is nothing but dust in the palm of a raindrop.

This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless,

Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson
done,

Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the
themes thou lovest best,

Night, sleep, death and the stars.




Big  Book Of Poetry

"Another question: Is passionate love worth the volcanic disruption of all the lovely little cities of friendship and desire? The writer didn’t admit to being the lover or a rejected resident of the little destroyed cities, but probably thought the formal, maybe arcane style would assure an answer." ~ Grace Paley

Answer: ...