Poetry Is Mostly Hunches.

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

The Summer Demands And Takes Away Too Much. /but Night, The Reserved, The Reticent, Gives More Than It Takes

I Like Poems You Can Tack All Over With A Hammer And There Are No Hollow Places.

The Poem Is Sad Because It Wants To Be Yours, And Cannot Be.

Somewhere Someone Is Traveling Furiously Toward You, At Incredible Speed, Traveling Day And Night.