We Are All Burning In Time, But

I Like Ornament At The Right Time, But I Don't Want A Poem To Be Made Out Of Decoration ... When I Read The Poems That Matter To Me, It Stuns Me How Much The Presence Of The Heart-in All Its Forms-is Endlessly Available There. To Experience Ourselves In An Important Way Just Knocks Me Out. It Puzzles Me Why People Have Given That Up For Cleverness. Some Of Them Are Ingenious, More Ingenious Than I Am, But So Many Of Them Aren't Any Good At Being Alive.

Duende I Can't Remember Her Name. It's Not As Though I've Been In Bed With That Many Women. The Truth Is I Can't Even Remember Her Face. I Kind Of Know How Strong Her Thighs Were, And Her Beauty. But What I Won't Forget Is The Way She Tore Open The Barbecued Chicken With Her Hands, And Wiped The Grease On Her Breasts.

Waking At Night The Blue River Is Grey At Morning And Evening. There Is Twilight At Dawn And Dusk. I Lie In The Dark Wondering If This Quiet In Me Now Is A Beginning Or An End.

Being Alive Is So Extraordinary I Don’t Know Why People Limit It To Riches, Pride, Security—all Of Those Things Life Is Built On. People Miss So Much Because They Want Money And Comfort And Pride, A House And A Job To Pay For The House. And They Have To Get A Car. You Can’t See Anything From A Car. It’s Moving Too Fast. People Take Vacations. That’s Their Reward—the Vacation. Why Not The Life?

We Think The Fire Eats The Wood. We Are Wrong. The Wood Reaches Out To The Flame. The Fire Licks At What The Wood Harbors, And The Wood Gives Itself Away To That Intimacy, The Manner In Which We And The World Meet Each New Day.