... Love Is Healing, Even Rootless Love.

Love Is Our Human Miracle.

Solitude Is The Salt Of Personhood. It Brings Out The Authentic Flavor Of Every Experience.

A Man With A Talent Does What Is Expected Of Him, Makes His Way, Constructs, Is An Engineer, A Composer, A Builder Of Bridges. It's The Natural Order Of Things That He Construct Objects Outside Himself And His Family. The Woman Who Does So Is Aberrant. We Have To Expiate For This Cursed Talent Someone Handed Out To Us, By Mistake, In The Black Mystery Of Genetics.

Poems Like To Have A Destination For Their Flight. They Are Homing Pigeons.

When One's Not Writing Poems - And I'm Not At The Moment - You Wonder How You Ever Did It. It's Like Another Country You Can't Reach.