I now come to find writing a poem is the most sacred act of my existence. I was wrong in 1959’s journal to say it was no holier act than passing waste. It is the accumulation of all days, the first spear into the exposed side of chaos. For despite the time tables that is what we live in. And to set order on that face, the face of that is a dream itself. For what is a dream and whose face appears in it but the Sacred Master who dictates all things.