The World Is Made Up Of Stories,

How Can I Look Back And Not Speak Of The Stupid Learning About Birth? Of The Stupid Learning That People Make Love, And How It Seemed The Reason For All Things, The Intimacy Of My Wondering, The Illumination That To An Adolescent Was The Cause For Life Around Me, The Reason Why The Unhappy People I Knew Did Not Kill Themselves?

The Heavy Sensual Shoulders, The Thighs, The Blood-born Flesh And Earth Turning Into Color, Rocks Into Their Crystals, Water To Sound, Fire To Form: Life Flickers Uncounted Into The Supple Arms Of Love.

The 'idea' For The Poem, Which May Come As An Image Thrown Against Memory, As A Sound Of Words That Sets Off A Traveling Of Sound And Meaning, As A Curve Of Emotion (a Form) Plotted By Certain Crises Of Events Or Image Or Sound, Or As A Title Which Evokes A Sense Of Inner Relations; This Is The First 'surfacing' Of The Poem. Then A Period Of Stillness May Follow.

We Sit Here, Very Different Each From The Other, Until The Passion Arrives To Give Us Our Equality, To Make Us Part Of The Play, To Make The Play Part Of Us.

Reality Is The Completion Of Experience.