What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire,

I Dropped My Hoe And Ran Into The House And Started To Write This Poem, 'end Of Summer.’ It Began As A Celebration Of Wild Geese. Eventually The Geese Flew Out Of The Poem, But I Like To Think They Left Behind The Sound Of Their Beating Wings.

What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire, Desire.

Not That You Need To Be A Saint To Have Visions Worth Talking About. The Most Effective Prescription, I Suspect, Is To Be A Disciplined Sinner. Perfection, As Valery Noted, Is Work.

How Shall The Heart Be Reconciled / To Its Feast Of Losses?

Poetry Is The Enemy Of The Poem.