In The Evening Everything Has A Schedule,

Poetry Comes To Me Out Of Thin Air Or Out Of My Unconscious Mind. It's Sort Of The Way Dreams Come To Us And The Way That We Get Knowledge From Them, Through Television, Old Movies, Which I Watch A Lot Of. Lines Of Dialogue Suddenly Seem To Be Part Of A Poem.

The First Year Was Like Icing. Then The Cake Started To Show Through.

Where Then Shall Hope And Fear Their Objects Find?

Much That Is Beautiful Must Be Discarded So That We May Resemble A Taller Impression Of Ourselves.

The Soul Establishes Itself. But How Far Can It Swim Out Through The Eyes And Still Return Safely To Its Nest?