for my better readers:

the night will arrive when these words will not so fondly bestow themselves
upon the page for me–
of course, some claim that they never have
but for me there has been a substance, no, a mountainous luck!
a luck which arrived often at times of unholy
circumstance.
–so many Stygian happenings, and a mind jolted nearly insensible
by the acts and actions of the few and the
many.

isolation has always been a splendid out against too much
world
but I was never alone: the Word eased some of the hell out of
hell.
and when things went well, the Word became a
Celebration.

besides mere publication and some good critical reviews
plus a late survival at doing what I wished to
do–
if there is room for pride, then I am proud of the letters
I have received
from the people in the jails and madhouses who have fallen upon
my work
and tell me that they understand of what I
write
and that it has helped them
through.

it has been said that “poetry is for the
poets”.

when these words no longer fondly bestow themselves
upon me
I will still be damned thankful I wrote the
other kind.

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