Out Alone In The Winter Rain, /

What Is This Talked-of Mystery Of Birth. But Being Mounted Bareback On The Earth?

You've Often Heard Me Say - Perhaps Too Often - That Poetry Is What Is Lost In Translation. It Is Also What Is Lost In Interpretation. That Little Poem Means Just What It Says And It Says What It Means, Nothing Less But Nothing More.

I Turned To Speak To God About The World's Despair But To Make Bad Matters Worse I Found God Wasn't There.

Style Is That Which Indicates How The Writer Takes Himself And What He Is Saying. It Is The Mind Skating Circles Around Itself As It Moves Forward.

Let's Get My Incantation Right: "i Wish I May, I Wish I Might" Give Earth Another Satellite.