In The Glare Of Your Mind, Be

The Language Of The Poem Is The Language Of Particulars.

Language Is, In Other Words, Not Necessary, But Voluntary. If It Were Necessary, It Would Have Stayed Simple; It Would Not Agitate Our Hearts With Ever-present Loveliness And Ever-cresting Ambiguity; It Would Not Dream, On Its Long White Bones, Of Turning Into Song.

Sometimes I Need Only To Stand Wherever I Am To Be Blessed.

Because Of The Dog’s Joyfulness, Our Own Is Increased. It Is No Small Gift.

All Eternity Is In The Moment.