Ordinary Eternal Machinery, Like The Grinding Of

If You're Squeezed For Information, / That's When You've Got To Play It Dumb: / You Just Say You're Out There Waiting / For The Miracle, For The Miracle To Come.

Out Of The Thousands Who Are Known Or Who Want To Be Known As Poets, Maybe One Or Two Are Genuine And The Rest Are Fakes, Hanging Around The Sacred Precincts, Trying To Look Like The Real Thing.

I Am Running Through A Snowfall Which Is Her Thighs, He Dramatized In Purple. Her Thighs Are Filling Up The Street. Wide As A Snowfall, Heavy As Huge Falling Zeppelins, Her Damp Thighs Are Settling On The Sharp Roofs And Wooden Balconies. Weather-vanes Press The Shape Of Roosters And Sail-boats Into The Skin. The Faces Of Famous Statues Are Preserved Like Intaglios.

A Poem Has A Certain - A Different Time. For Instance, A Poem Is A Very Private Experience, And It Doesn't Have A Driving Tempo. In Other Words, You Know, You Can Go Back And Forward; You Can Comeback; You Can Linger. You Know, It's A Completely Different Time Reference.

This Mental Space Is Occupied And Everything Is Mine.