Poetry Finds Its Perilous Equilibrium Somewhere Between

There Were Moments ... When It Seemed That All One Could Be Asked Was Just To Keep The Ashtrays Clean, The Bed Made, The Wastebaskets Emptied, As If One Never Got To The Real Things Because Of The Constant Exhausting Battle To Keep Ordinary Life From Falling Apart.

What Is Destructive Is Impatience, Haste, Expecting Too Much Too Fast.

Try Making A Poem As If It Were A Table, Clear And Solid, Standing There Outside You.

How Slowly One Comes To Understand Anything!

For After All We Make Our Faces As We Go Along.