There Is Something Very Satisfactory About Being

I Lived In The Studio Apartment That I Bought For Four Years Before I Bought It In 1989, So I Was Already In It. I Began Living There In 1985, So I've Had The Same Address And Phone Number Since Then.

Did You Love Well What Very Soon You Left? Come Home And Take Me In Your Arms And Take Away This Stomach Ache, Headache, Heartache. Never So Full, I Never Was Bereft So Utterly. The Winter Evenings Drift Dark To The Window. Not One Work Will Make You, Where You Are, Turn In Your Day, Or Wake From Your Night Toward Me. The Only Gift I Got To Keep Or Give Is What I've Cried, Floodgates Let Down To Mourning For The Dead Chances, For The End Of Being Young, For Everyone I Loved Who Really Died. I Drank Our One Year Out In Brine Instead Of Honey From The Seasons Of Your Tongue.

I Started To Send My Work To Journals When I Was 26, Which Was Just A Question Of When I Got The Courage Up. They Were Mostly Journals I Had Been Reading For The Previous Six Or Seven Years.

I Don't Know Whether A Poem Has Be There To Help To Develop Something. I Think It's There For Itself, For What The Reader Finds In It.

I've Been An Inveterate Reader Of Literary Magazines Since I Was A Teenager. There Are Always Discoveries. You're Sitting In Your Easy Chair, Reading; You Realize You've Read A Story Or A Group Of Poems Four Times, And You Know, Yes, I Want To Go Farther With This Writer.