A Poem Begins In Delight And Ends

Like A Piece Of Ice On A Hot Stove The Poem Must Ride On Its Own Melting. . . . Read It A Hundred Times; It Will Forever Keep Its Freshness As A Metal Keeps Its Fragrance. It Can Never Lose Its Sense Of A Meaning That Once Unfolded By Surprise As It Went.

People Are Inexterminable - Like Flies And Bed-bugs. There Will Always Be Some That Survive In Cracks And Crevices - That's Us.

Unless You Are Educated In Metaphor, You Are Not Safe To Be Let Loose In The World.

Poetry Should Be Common In Experience But Uncommon In Books.

The Only Way Around Is Through.