A Poem Has Secrets That The Poet

I Dance/for The Joy Of Surviving, At The Edge Of The Road.

When They Shall Paint Our Sockets Gray And Light Us Like A Stinking Fuse, Remember That We Once Could Say, Yesterday We Had A World To Lose.

Poetry Is The Enemy Of The Poem.

The Poem Comes In The Form Of A Blessing, Like Rapture Breaking On The Mind.

We Have All Been Expelled From The Garden, But The Ones Who Suffer Most In Exile Are Those Who Are Still Permitted To Dream Of Perfection.