All That We Did Was Human, Stupid,

Knowing Where And Who Are Intimately Linked.

With No Surroundings There Can Be No Path, And With No Path One Cannot Become Free.

Clambering Up The Cold Mountain Path, The Cold Mountain Trail Goes On And On: The Long Gorge Choked With Scree And Boulders, The Wide Creek, The Mist-blurred Grass. The Moss Is Slippery, Though There's Been No Rain The Pine Sings, But There's No Wind. Who Can Leap The World's Ties And Sit With Me Among The White Clouds?

All Those Years And Their Moments— Crackling Bacon, Slamming Car Doors, Poems Tried Out On Friends, Will Be One More Archive, One More Shaky Text.

I Never Find Words Right Away. Poems For Me Always Begin With Images And Rhythms, Shapes, Feelings, Forms, Dances In The Back Of My Mind.