A Spinning Coin, Still Balanced On Its

But The Only Rhyme He Could Summon For 'out' Was 'sauerkraut,' Which Lacked Poetic Glory. He Let It Go. The Right Line Would Come In Time. That Was The Thing About Poetry. It Crept Up Through The Draws And Coulees Of The Brain.

If You Get The Landscape Right, The Characters Will Step Out Of It, And They'll Be In The Right Place.

Walking On The Land Or Digging In The Fine Soil I Am Intensely Aware That Time Quivers Slightly, Changes Occurring In Imperceptible And Minute Ways, Accumulating So Subtly That They Seem Not To Exist. Yet The Tiny Shifts In Everything--cell Replication, The Rain Of Dust Motes, Lengthening Hair, Wind-pushed Rocks--press Inexorably On And On.

Wonderful ... I Was Up All Night Reading It, Laughing And Crying Out In Horror.

Their Silence Comfortable. Something Unfolding. But What? Not Love, Which Wrenched And Wounded. Not Love, Which Came Only Once.