Most Things May Never Happen: This One

And Immediately Rather Than Words Comes The Thought Of High Windows: The Sun-comprehending Glass, And Beyond It, The Deep Blue Air, That Shows Nothing, And Is Nowhere, And Is Endless.

A Good Meal Can Somewhat Repair / The Eatings Of Slight Love

Dear, I Can't Write, It's All A Fantasy: A Kind Of Circling Obsession.

Poetry Should Begin With Emotion In The Poet, And End With The Same Emotion In The Reader. The Poem Is Simply The Instrument Of Transferance.

No One Can Tear Your Thread Out Of Himself. No One Can Tie You Down Or Set You Free.