Poetry Is Mostly Hunches.

Some Certified Nut Will Try To Tell You It's Poetry, (it's Extraordinary, It Makes A Great Deal Of Sense) But Watch Out Or He'll Start With Some New Notion Or Other.

To The Poet As A Basement Quilt, But Perhaps To Some Reader A Latticework Of Regrets.

Alone With Our Madness And Favorite Flower We See That There Really Is Nothing Left To Write About. Or Rather, It Is Necessary To Write About The Same Old Things In The Same Way, Repeating The Same Things Over And Over For Love To Continue And Be Gradually Different.

One Can Lose A Good Idea By Not Writing It Down, Yet By Losing It One Can Have It: It Nourishes Other Asides It Knows Nothing Of, Would Not Recognize Itself In, Yet When The Negotiations Are Terminated, Speaks In The Acts Of That Progenitor, And Does Recognize Itself, Is Grateful For Not Having Done So Earlier.

In The Increasingly Convincing Darkness The Words Become Palpable, Like A Fruit That Is Too Beautiful To Eat.