Verse Is Not Written, It Is Bled;

I Have Published In 'the New Yorker,' 'holiday,' 'life,' 'mademoiselle,' 'american Heritage,' 'horizon,' 'the Ladies Home Journal,' 'the Kenyon Review,' 'the Sewanee Review,' 'poetry,' 'botteghe Oscure,' The 'atlantic Monthly,' 'harper's.'

I Have Lectured At Town Hall N.y., The Library Of Congress, Harvard, Yale, Amherst, Wellesley, Columbia, Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Louisiana State University, Colorado, Stanford, And Scores Of Other Places.

Soldiers Of The American Revolution Fought That 18th Century War With Heavy Muskets. In The Early 20th Century, We Kids Fought It Every Fourth Of July Not Only With Exploding Powder And Shimmering Flares, But With All Of Our Senses.

A Barn With Cattle And Horses Is The Place To Begin Christmas; After All, That's Where The Original Event Happened, And That Same Smell Was The First Air That The Christ Child Breathed.

All Poetry Is An Ordered Voice, One Which Tries To Tell You About A Vision In The Un-visionary Language Of Farm, City, And Love.