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Dear poetryetc, A poem from Louise Gluck's "The Wild Iris": SCILLA Not I, you idiot, not self, but we, we--waves of sky blue like a critique of heaven: why do you treasure your voice when to be one thing is to be next to nothing? Why do you look up? To hear an echo like the voice of god? You are all the same to us, solitary, standing above us, planning your silly lives: you go where you are sent, like all things, where the wind plants you, one or another of you forever looking down and seeing some image of water, and hearing what? Waves, and over waves, birds singing. Louise Gluck, "The Wild Iris", The Ecco Press, 1992 _______________________________________________________ Say Bye to Slow Internet! http://www.home.com/xinbox/signup.html %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%