One Tends To Write Beyond What's Needed

The Aim Of The Poet, Or Other Artist, Is First To Make Something; And It's Impossible To Make Something Out Of Words And Not Communicate

Snow Falling Softly On Lashes Of Eyes You Love, And A Cold Cheek Growing Warm Next To Your Own In Hushed Dark Familial December.

Looking At The Sky Last Night And The Moon In The First Fresh Dark, Just A Few Stars, Bright With Their Cold Flares, I Had A Little Crumpled Thought, 'oh Well, The Moon. It's Just Another Place Like California.' One's Imagination Drags Its Feet As We Are Inexorably Hauled Into The Future.

In The Past I Have Declined To Comment On My Own Work: Because, It Seems To Me, A Poem Is What It Is; Because A Poem Is Itself A Definition, And To Try To Redefine It Is To Be Apt To Falsify It; And Because The Author Is The Person Least Able To Consider His Work Objectively

One Tends To Write Beyond What's Needed