The Dream Of My Life Is To

Every Adjective And Adverb Is Worth Five Cents. Every Verb Is Worth Fifty Cents.

For Some Things There Are No Wrong Seasons. Which Is What I Dream Of For Me.

The Language Of The Poem Is The Language Of Particulars.

I Know I Can Walk Through The World, Along The Shore Or Under The Trees, With My Mind Filled With Things Of Little Importance, In Full Self-attendance. A Condition I Can't Really Call Being Alive.

You, Too, Can Be Carved Anew By The Details Of Your Devotion.