What I find true is
this empty space arising,
the pen suspended,
the space like a new
rose shimmering, bent with dew,
near the Pacific.
All year round, this search
unbidden yet promising
astonishing finds.
Glosses on texts by William Desmond
What I find true is
this empty space arising,
the pen suspended,
the space like a new
rose shimmering, bent with dew,
near the Pacific.
All year round, this search
unbidden yet promising
astonishing finds.