There Is A Grace Of Life Which

Is It Not The Play Of The Mind We Are After? Is It Not That That Shows A Mind Is There At All?

The Flowers Are Ravined By Bees, The Fruit Blossoms Are Thrown To The Ground, The Wind The Rain Forces Everything.

One Loves Only Form, And Form Only Comes Into Existence When The Thing Is Born.

I Defer To All These Other American Poets Who, For Some Reason, I Both Envy And Admire.

I'm Trying To Climb Up Both Walls At Once.