I'm Seventy-one Now, So It's Hard To

Now I Think Poetry Will Save Nothing From Oblivion, But I Keep Writing About The Ordinary Because For Me It's The Home Of The Extraordinary, The Only Home.

Some Things You Know All Your Life. They Are So Simple And True They Must Be Said Without Elegance, Meter And Rhyme...they Must Be Naked And Alone, They Must Stand For Themselves.

How Weightless/ Words Are When Nothing Will Do.

I'm Afraid We Live At The Mercy Of A Power, Maybe A God, Without Mercy. And Yet We Find It, As I Have, From Others.

I Started Listening To Music When I Wrote When I Had Three Sons At Home.