There Is A Sharp Distinction Between What

Poetry And Prose Are Of Equal Importance To Me As A Reader, And There Doesn't Seem To Be Much Difference In My Own Writing.

I Guess I Find The Boundaries Between Poetry And Prose To Be Somewhat Permeable.

To Understand The World, One’s Place In It, Is To Be Always At The Risk Of Drowning.

All Choices Are Illusions, Or If They Are Not Illusions Their Strength Is Illusory, For One Choice Must Contend With The Choices Of All The Other Men And Women Deciding Anything In That Moment.

The War Tried To Kill Us In The Spring. As Grass Greened The Plains Of Nineveh And The Weather Warmed, We Patrolled The Low-slung Hills Beyond The Cities And Towns. We Moved Over Them And Through The Tall Grass On Faith, Kneading Paths Into The Windswept Growth Like Pioneers. While We Slept, The War Rubbed Its Thousand Ribs Against The Ground In Prayer.