Love, d**h, sleeping with somebody else's husband or wife-this is what poetry is about-Eskimo, Aztec, or even Italian Rinascimento, or even the high falutin Greeks or noble Roman-O's. O the constant turmoil of the human species- beds, graves, Spring with its familiar rosebuds, the wrong beds, the wrong graves, wars unremembered & boundaries gained only to be lost & lost again & lost roses whose lost petals reminded poets to carpe, carpe diem with whoever's wife or husband happened to be handiest! O Turmoil & Confusion- you are my Muses! O longing for a world without d**h, without beds divided by walls between houses! All the beds float out to sea! All the dying lovers wave to the other dying lovers! One of them writes on his mistress's skin as he floats. He is the poet. Not for this will his life be spared.