The First Year Was Like Icing. Then

So I Cradle This Average Violin That Knows Only Forgotten Showtunes, But Argues The Possibility Of Free Declamation Anchored To A Dull Refrain.

You Stupefied Me. We Waxed, Carnivores, Late And Alight In The Beaded Winter. All Was Ominous, Luminous.

Reading Is A Pleasure, But To Finish Reading, To Come To The Blank Space At The End, Is Also A Pleasure.

I Want A Bedroom Near The Sky, An Astrologer's Cave Where I Can Fashion Eclogues That Are Chaste And Grave.

I Don't Find Any Direct Statements In Life. My Poetry Imitates Or Reproduces The Way Knowledge Or Awareness Come To Me, Which Is By Fits And Starts And By Indirection. I Don't Think Poetry Arranged In Neat Patterns Would Reflect That Situation. My Poetry Is Disjunct, But Then So Is Life.