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The folly of the rage for meaning is to treat a poem like a locked box to be broken into for its contents, then thrown away.
—Theodore Weiss
Friday, October 16, 2015

Our bit

Our finite bit of the infinite
only whets our appetite.

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© 1996 - 2025
All rights reserved.
Michael C. Rush (aka M. C. Rush)
Direct inquires to:  rushmc @ webnesia.com

(Site was originally called @ Wit's End, then
The Shattered Mirror, before becoming Webnesia.)

Defender of Truth & Justice since (approx.) 1973!