...and who never came with a book of poetry br no matter how small except at Easter time br to welcome the spring like a homework task br for the school of death at best when masked br in points and counter- dissimilation attitudes br uncompromised by the timidity of so innocent a light br smashed by too many windows br playing he games of wholeness br when nothing in reality could reflect the glass br br ...and who never learned anyhting from mistakes br but took them all and put them aside br so that someone else could call that life br while erraneous they knew they'd live forever br under the names of unknown stars br than never thought of a single rhyme br in dots and joints counting the syllables br where no word could find its place br to live long enough to pronounce br the syncopal nature of things most sublime br bathing in their pauses in the realms of freedom br with no fear to share with so much to dare br the rise and fall of the moon and sun br br ...