Her whistle is climbing its spiral stair And loathe are my evenings, loathe of bone, And fir trees are steeples in the air, And every confession is told alone. The little lung beats the feathered snare, And fair is my sunset, fair of light, And here bend the proverbs, the tricky prayer, And I sit and I know the quieting night. This poem appears concurrently in Paul’s new collection from Wiseblood Books, The Locust Years.
There's nothing Artificial about our Intelligence