Where is that spring, that eternal well, that cosmic tunnel of love,
Where the petty thought is trampled and elephants roam on clouds?

Heavily pregnant with images growing in my womb,
I dare not push away what is growing around me.

Will my art eat me as I eat it?
Will it force its way out crying lustily?

Burning with a fever that waxes and wanes,
I wake before the birds and feel my pain.