For Art Is Order, But It Is

I Tell The Gods Are Still Alive / And They Are Not Consoling.

The More Articulate One Is, The More Dangerous Words Become.

I Love Giving Flowers. It Is So Deliciously Unlasting And Romantic.

We Have To Make Myths Of Our Lives, The Point Being That If We Do, Then Every Grief Or Inexplicable Seizure By Weather, Woe, Or Work Can-if We Discipline Ourselves And Think Hard Enough-be Turned To Account, Be Made To Yield Further Insight Into What It Is To Be Alive, To Be A Human Being.

Poems Like To Have A Destination For Their Flight. They Are Homing Pigeons.