The Imagination Has Resources And Intimations We

A Writer Is Dreamed And Transfigured Into Being By Spells, Wishes, Goldfish, Silhouettes Of Trees, Boxes Of Fairy Tales Dropped In The Mud, Uncles' And Cousins' Books, Tablets And Capsules And Powders...and Then One Day You Find Yourself Leaning Here, Writing On That Round Glass Table Salvaged From The Park View Pharmacy--writing This, An Impossibility, A Summary Of Who You Came To Be Where You Are Now, And Where, God Knows, Is That?

Death Persecutes Before It Executes.

We Were Born To Die; We Were Born To Endure, On The Way To Death, Sorrow-sorrow In Manifold Shapes.

... Woman Is Frequently Praised As The More "creative" Sex. She Does Not Need To Make Poems, It Is Argued; She Has No Drive To Make Poems, Because She Is Privileged To Make Babies. A Pregnancy Is As Fulfilling As, Say, Yeats' Sailing To Byzantium.... To Call A Child A Poem May Be A Pretty Metaphor, But It Is A Slur On The Labor Of Art.

The Engineering Is Secondary To The Vision.