Almost Anything Is Too Much. I Am

Writing A Poem ... Is A Kind Of Possible Love Affair Between Something Like The Heart (that Courageous But Also Shy Factory Of Emotion) And The Learned Skills Of The Conscious Mind.

I Held My Breath As We Do Sometimes To Stop Time When Something Wonderful Has Touched Us.

Maybe Death Isn't Darkness, After All, But So Much Light Wrapping Itself Around Us--

My First Two Books Are Out Of Print And, Okay, They Can Sleep There Comfortably. It's Early Work, Derivative Work.

It Is The Nature Of Stone To Be Satisfied. It Is The Nature Of Water To Want To Be Somewhere Else.