Writing Is A Delicious Agony.

The Forties And Fifties Were Years Of High Poet-incense; The Language-flowers Were Thickly Sweet. Those Flowers Whined And Begged White Folks To Pick Them, To Find Them Lovable. Then The '60s: Independent Fire!

We Are Each Other's Magnitude And Bond.

There Are No Magics Or Elves / Or Timely Godmothers To Guide Us. We Are Lost, Must / Wizard A Track Through Our Own Screaming Weed.

And If Sun Comes / How Shall We Greet Him? / Shall We Not Dread Him, / Shall We Not Fear Him / After So Lengthy A / Session With Shade?

As You Get Older, You Find That Often The Wheat, Disentangling Itself From The Chaff, Comes Out To Meet You.