Time Is A Sandpile We Run Our

The Fog Comes On Little Cat Feet. It Sits Looking Over The Harbor And City On Silent Haunches And Then Moves On.

Hope Is An Echo, Hope Ties Itself Yonder, Yonder.

The Greatest Certainty In Life Is Death. The Greatest Uncertainty Is The Time.

I Wrote Poems In My Corner Of The Brooks Street Station. I Sent Them To Two Editors Who Rejected Them Right Off. I Read Those Letters Of Rejection Years Later And I Agreed With Those Editors.

The Single Clenched Fist Lifted And Ready, Or The Open Asking Hand Held Out And Waiting. Choose: For We Meet By One Or The Other.