When One's Not Writing Poems - And

The Beginner Hugs His Infant Poem To Him And Does Not Want It To Grow Up. But You May Have To Break Your Poem To Remake It.

So Let The World Go, But Hold Fast To Joy.

Instant Intimacy Was Too Often Followed By Disillusion.

If I Were To Choose One Single Thing That That Would Restore Paris To The Senses, It Would Be That Strangely Sweet, Unhealthy Smell Of The Métro, So Very Unlike The Dank Cold Or The Stuffy Heat Of Subways In New York.

Innocence Is Not Pure So Much As Pleased, Always Expectant, Bright-eyed, Self-enclosed