Lay Me On An Anvil, O God.

After The Sunset On The Prairie, There Are Only The Stars

Poetry Is Any Page From A Sketchbook Of Outlines Of A Doorknob With Thumb-prints Of Dust, Blood, Dreams.

The Single Clenched Fist Lifted And Ready, Or The Open Asking Hand Held Out And Waiting. Choose: For We Meet By One Or The Other.

There Is A Formal Poetry Perfect Only In Form?the Number Of Syllables, The Designated And Required Stresses Of Accent, The Rhymes If Wantedthey Come Off With The Skill Of A Solved Crossword Puzzle.

Arithmetic Is Where The Answer Is Right And Everything Is Nice And You Can Look Out Of The Window And See The Blue Sky - Or The Answer Is Wrong And You Have To Start Over And Try Again And See How It Comes Out This Time.