I Long For The Imperishable Quiet At

I Am Overwhelmed By The Beautiful Disorder Of Poetry, The Eternal Virginity Of Words.

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

Fear Was My Father, Father Fear. His Look Drained The Stones.

What Falls Away Is Always. And Is Near.

Those Who Are Willing To Be Vulnerable Move Among Mysteries.