Morals hinge on recognizing beauty.
Keats and Poe were right.
To make the good a pleasure, not a duty,
I pretend I am standing on a gigantic height
and the one I love is about to fall.
The secret to aesthetics is fright.
There is nothing complicated at all
about this. The genius adores simplicity.
The world isn't big---it's tall.
The long-limbed are out to conquer the sensual.
There is a freshness, an awful newness about the land.
There are echoes. I am about to scream.
Give me your hand.