I'm One Of The Cliches That Has

My Life Has Been Given Its Orders: The Seasons Seize The Soul And The Body, And Make Mock Of Any Dispersed Effort. The Hour Of Death Is The Only Trespass

I Defer To All These Other American Poets Who, For Some Reason, I Both Envy And Admire.

Of Rhythm Is Image / Of Image Is Knowing / Of Knowing There Is / A Construct

The Canadian Voice Is Still Too Rustic.

O.k. I'm Running Out Of Appetite. Let This Swirl- A Bit Like Crab Nebula- Do For Now.