. . "I met a seer, who sent his spirit." --Walt Whitman . . When I see him again in the steamroom, this panhandle Texan on loan to my city, his (evening) path a primrose to emigrate, We speak; our selves a child muse inspiratory in the eyes of midnight. . He'd like now to share such things once refused with shyness and fear. One is an apparition (phantom). Two is an ideal (eidolon). . He had misgivings about his course, a mild panic that shorted our path, spoke of times since that thoughts of me had occupied his mind: Was I still reading poetry? The utility of which was questionable? . His regrets an explanation and this too-late intrigue with me a vanity to redeem the faltered conscience. The boy now grown from the man has understood that when eyes sear those selfsame burn in his mirror. . But there remains ...alone... the inert Moon and this base philosophy. Whose letters to practical men are a hope of phasing this real world? . Hell is everyday w/out the beloved. . Bruce met a seer who sent his spirit and then the merge. . . 21 April 1996
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