I Learn By Going Where I Have

Any Fool Can Take A Bad Line Out Of A Poem; It Takes A Real Pro To Throw Out A Good Line.

The Mind Enters Itself, And God The Mind, And One Is One, Free In The Tearing Wind.

I Have Come To A Still, But Not A Deep Center, A Point Outside The Glittering Current; My Eyes Stare At The Bottom Of A River, At The Irregular Stones, Iridescent Sandgrains, My Mind Moves In More Than One Place, In A Country Half-land, Half-water. I Am Renewed By Death, Thought Of My Death, The Dry Scent Of A Dying Garden In September, The Wind Fanning The Ash Of A Low Fire. What I Love Is Near At Hand, Always, In Earth And Air.

You Must Believe A Poem Is A Holy Thing, A Good Poem, That Is.

So Much Of Adolescence Is An Ill-defined Dying, An Intolerable Waiting, A Longing For Another Place And Time, Another Condition.