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Poem	My hands did numb to beauty as they reached into Death and tightened! O sovereign was my touch upon the tan-inks's fragile page! Quickly, my eyes moved quickly, sought for smell for dust for lace for dry hair! I would have taken the page breathing in the crime! For no evidence have I wrung from dreams-- yet what triumph is there in private credence? Often, in some steep ancestral book, when I find myself entangled with leopard-apples and torched-skin mushrooms, my cypressean skein outreaches the recorded age and I, as though tipping a pitcher of milk, pour secrecy upon the dying page.
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