these days

... keep asking myself when does poetry stop. I see it as a lover's hands her arms, her naked shoulders and always she is everywhere. Around

and in me. Speaking  me even when I sleep. .. n the arms of night, day breath. .. box of loves. Not calculated by the 'regular' images of

armies . and breath is a blessed name. i Kiss those long legs of . Her heart and other speakers. As the day winds. Round its kissing

... wrote this about five minutes ago.... It's the tiniest wee morsel of  a thing...
loosely connected to work .... Reader the comic element of any text is always that it appears serious. Thus poetry is a love affair. 

As love affairs go it's not any worse than others. But and However, it 

does have its own pains and rewards.______

Call it the adventures of Liam Word.