I Cried Over Beautiful Things, Knowing No

Corn Wind In The Fall, Come Off The Black Lands, Come Off The Whisper Of The Silk Hangers, The Lap Of The Flat Spear Leaves.

Read The Dictionary From A To Izzard Today. Get A Vocabulary. Brush Up On Your Diction. See Whether Wisdom Is Just A Lot Of Language.

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.

Drum On Your Drums, Batter On Your Banjos, Sob On The Long Cool Winding Saxophones. Go To It, O Jazzmen.

Poetry Is A Sky Dark With A Wild-duck Migration.