I Don't Live For Poetry. I Live

We All Want What's Been Suddenly Disallowed.

Knowledge Is The Harvest Of Attention

Forgive Me If I Sleep Until I Wake Up.

This Morning Of The Small Snow I Count The Blessings, The Leak In The Faucet Which Makes Of The Sink Time, The Drop Of The Water On Water.

The Poem, For Me, Is Simply The First Sound Realized In The Modality Of Being.