[Mountain Laurel; Great Smoky Mountains]

The nerves are dead that feel no hunger or pain there's no triumph but failure. This is the last speech of seraphim or beast sick in need for change and chaos. The room of banished love for beauty. The tooth in our breast. What we see is real and able to our hand, what we feel is beauty (BEAUTY) what we strike is hatred, what we scent is odorous. This about me is my bride if I kick aside the forms of it for woman world and mineral for air for earth for fire and water for table chair and blood.

..............--from Ode for Soft Voice; Michael McClure (1961)