I prefer esoteric goals, psychological complexes,
Improbability and pastels, foggy mystical forests,
A heavy veneer of fresh snow
covering every single thing in sight
I love Joyce Carol Oates for her emotional depth
Weaving generations of family into a personality
Love those minimalist Zen paintings drawn
In a few simple strokes from a quill pen
Dipped into the bloody heart of all things
You may see me shooting frail arrows
Into impossible strides of sky overhead
Or straight into the furnace of the sun -
The Thing that I am now become
Cups the Face of God in the palm of its hand
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