The Aim Of The Poet, Or Other

I Wish I Could Press Snowflakes In A Book Like Flowers.

Snow Falling Softly On Lashes Of Eyes You Love, And A Cold Cheek Growing Warm Next To Your Own In Hushed Dark Familial December.

Looking At The Sky Last Night And The Moon In The First Fresh Dark, Just A Few Stars, Bright With Their Cold Flares, I Had A Little Crumpled Thought, 'oh Well, The Moon. It's Just Another Place Like California.' One's Imagination Drags Its Feet As We Are Inexorably Hauled Into The Future.

I Do Not Usually Revise Much, Though I Often Cut, Particularly The End Or Toward The End Of A Poem

However, If A Poem Can Be Reduced To A Prose Sentence, There Can't Be Much To It.