At Times I Believed That The Last

The Rhyme Always Knows Better Than You, And Leads You To Places Where You Wouldn't Otherwise Have Gotten To And That Is Absolutely The Case. Leading Off From Formal Poetry, There Is Something About When You Pay Attention To Form And You Allow It To Have Its Own Laws And You Listen To Those Laws You Really Do End Up In Places You Wouldn't Otherwise Go. Which Isn't To Say That I Believe In Following The Rules When I Write. I Don't. Each Of The Forms In My Books Feels To Me New.

And He Isn't Crying For Her, Not For His Grandma, He's Crying For Himself: That He: Too, Is Going To Die One Day. And Before That His Friends Wil Die, And The Friends Of His Friends, And, As Time Passes, The Children Of His Friends, And, If His Fate Is Truly Bitter, His Own Children. (58)

What Interests Me Very Much As A Writer Is The Ability For Writing To Have Our Lives To Be Occupied So Vividly By Others. I Think That's What We Long For As Writers.

We Met Each Other When We Were Young, Before We Knew Enough About Disappointment, And Once We Did We Found We Reminded Each Other Of It.

For Her I Changed Pebbles Into Diamonds, Shoes Into Mirrors, I Changed Glass Into Water, I Gave Her Wings And Pulled Birds From Her Ears And In Her Pockets She Found The Feathers, I Asked A Pear To Become A Pineapple, A Pineapple To Become A Lightbulb, A Lightbulb To Become The Moon, And The Moon To Become A Coin I Flipped For Her Love.