Poetry Is A Sky Dark With A

I Wrote Poems In My Corner Of The Brooks Street Station. I Sent Them To Two Editors Who Rejected Them Right Off. I Read Those Letters Of Rejection Years Later And I Agreed With Those Editors.

The Fog Comes On Little Cat Feet. It Sits Looking Over The Harbor And City On Silent Haunches And Then Moves On.

I Fell In Love, Not Deep, But I Fell Several Times And Then Fell Out.

Poetry: A Sliver Of The Moon Lost In The Belly Of A Golden Frog.

To Never See A Fool You Lock Yourself In Your Room And Smash The Looking-glass.