End With An Image And Don't Explain.

The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The Mind.

The Universe Is A Continuous Web. Touch It At Any Point And The Whole Web Quivers.

Some Poems Present Themselves As Cliffs That Need To Be Climbed. Others Are So Defensive That When You Approach Their Enclosure You Half Expect To Be Met By A Snarling Dog At The Gate. Still Others Want To Smother You With Their Sticky Charms.

A Longing For The Dance Stirs In The Buried Life.

Darling, Do You Remember The Man You Married? Touch Me, Remind Me Who I Am.