If Youth Is A Defect, It Is

Pity The Planet, All Joy Gone From This Sweet Volcanic Cone

We Feel The Machine Slipping From Our Hands As If Someone Else Were Steering; If We See Light At The End Of The Tunnel, It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

I Saw The Spiders Marching Through The Air, Swimming From Tree To Tree That Mildewed Day In Latter August When The Hay Came Creaking To The Barn.

I'm Sure That Writing Isn't A Craft, That Is, Something For Which You Learn The Skills And Go On Turning Out. It Must Come From Some Deep Impulse, Deep Inspiration. That Can't Be Taught, It Can't Be What You Use In Teaching.

We Are All Old-timers, Each Of Us Holds A Locked Razor.