In My Own Work, I Usually Revise

Poetry Is A River; Many Voices Travel In It; Poem After Poem Moves Along In The Exciting Crests And Falls Of The River Waves. None Is Timeless; Each Arrives In An Historical Context; Almost Everything, In The End, Passes. But The Desire To Make A Poem, And The World's Willingness To Receive It--indeed The World's Need Of It--these Never Pass.

I Don't Know Lots Of Things But I Know This: Next Year When Spring Flows Over The Starting Point I'll Think I'm Going To Drown In The Shimmering Miles Of It.

It Is A Serious Thing // Just To Be Alive / On This Fresh Morning / In This Broken World.

... Let Us Risk The Wildest Places, Lest We Go Down In Comfort, And Despair.

Look For Verbs Of Muscle, Adjectives Of Exactitude.