THE WORLD IS COMING
high and wide, in the vacant air . . .
straight through the four white walls of the real
until it no longer appears
different
from what the eye sees.
(Ronald Johnson, "Poem," Poetry, 120 (1972), p 144)
A personal archive of essays, belle lettres, speeches, poesy, and all kinds of desultory bits of inspiration, beauty, and sobriety ...