Hope Is An Echo, Hope Ties Itself

I Wrote Poems In My Corner Of The Brooks Street Station. I Sent Them To Two Editors Who Rejected Them Right Off. I Read Those Letters Of Rejection Years Later And I Agreed With Those Editors.

Poetry Is A Kinetic Arrangement Of Static Syllables.

Out Of Great Russia Came Three Dusky Syllables Workmen Took Guns And Went Out To Die For: Bread, Peace, Land.

I Was Up Day And Night With Lincoln For Years. I Couldn't Have Picked A Better Companion.

Men Of Ideas Vanish When Freedom Vanishes.