I Know This Body Is Impatient. I

I Heard Words And Words Full Of Holes Aching.

My Nature Is A Quagmire Of Unresolved Confessions.

As I Get Older, I Recognize That My Thinking About Poetry May Or May Not Have Anything Actively To Do With My Actual Work As A Poet. This Strikes Me As No Thing Cynically Awry But Rather Seems Again Instance Of That Hapless Or Possibly Happy Fact, We Do Not As Humans Seem Necessarily Aware Of What We Are Physically Or Psychically Doing At All!

There Are A Lot Of Editorials That Have Nothing To Do With Anything Like That. But I Was Just Thinking Of That Sense Of Prose As Being Very Responsible And Perceptive, Thoughtful, Intimate, And Contriving A Quote Statement.

It Is Hard Going To The Door Cut So Small In The Wall Where The Vision Which Echoes Loneliness Brings A Scent Of Wild Flowers In The Wood.