Strange, It Is A Huge Nothing That

But Even So, None Of The News Of These World-spasms Entered Me As Terror.

The Completely Solitary Self: That's Where Poetry Comes From, And It Gets Isolated By Crisis, And Those Crises Are Often Very Intimate Also.

Now It’s High Watermark And Floodtide In The Heart And Time To Go. The Sea-nymphs In The Spray Will Be The Chorus Now. What’s Left To Say? Suspect Too Much Sweet-talk But Never Close Your Mind. It Was A Fortunate Wind That Blew Me Here. I Leave Half-ready To Believe That A Crippled Trust Might Walk And The Half-true Rhyme Is Love.

Two Buckets Were Easier Carried Than One. / I Grew Up In Between.

Between My Finger And My Thumb The Squat Pen Rests; Snug As A Gun. ~from The Poem "digging