Writing A Poem Is Discovering.

Every Poem Is A Momentary Stay Against The Confusion Of The World.

You Know How Cunningly Mankind Is Planned: We Have One Loving And One Hating Hand. The Loving's Made To Hold Each Other Like, While With The Hating Other Hand We Strike.

If One By One We Counted People Out

The Fact Is The Sweetest Dream That Labor Knows.

People Who Read Me Seem To Be Divided Into Four Groups: Twenty-five Percent Like Me For The Right Reasons; Twenty-five Percent Like Me For The Wrong Reasons; Twenty-five Percent Hate Me For The Wrong Reasons; Twenty-five Percent Hate Me For The Right Reasons. It's That Last Twenty-five Percent That Worries Me.