You, Too, Can Be Carved Anew By

A Mind That Is Lively And Inquiring, Compassionate, Curious, Angry, Full Of Music, Full Of Feeling, Is A Mind Full Of Possible Poetry.

The End Of Life Has Its Own Nature, Also Worth Our Attention.

Invention Hovers Always A Little Above The Rules.

Walks Work For Me. I Enter Some Arena That Is Neither Conscious Or Unconscious.

And There You Are On The Shore, Fitful And Thoughtful, Trying To Attach Them To An Idea — Some News Of Your Own Life. But The Lilies Are Slippery And Wild—they Are Devoid Of Meaning, They Are Simply Doing, From The Deepest Spurs Of Their Being, What They Are Impelled To Do Every Summer. And So, Dear Sorrow, Are You.