But some beauty is not momentary in the mind. Perfected overtones in ether stay, and stars after all midnights hold full shining. I think of how earth is glass, how all bear splinters, soon or late, passports. This one, this one, this one goes only jagged the whole journey, seeing always in glass darkly. I think of how you mirrored Venus, flashed that light back and forth, faultless message on faultless glass before the creeping striae fractured.
Philosophy is facile.
I would wish you Venus rising eighty years and some, or eighty years with lesser light, at least give choice. Small as a white flower I once gathered on a moor, no god deploying genes, I only can remember the fine web spun on the flower, the way a wind. These localities have left their powerful stamp on him and his poems, as has his working as a machinist's helper, movie usher, musician, and technical writer. He has received several awards. He has few peers in bringing Rilke into the machine shop.