At Midnight Tears Run Into Your Ears.

O God, In The Dream The Terrible Horse Began To Paw At The Air, And Make For Me With His Blows.

The Measured Blood Beats Out The Year's Delay.

Women Have No Wilderness In Them They Are Provident Instead Content In The Tight Hot Cell Of Their Hearts To Eat Dusty Bread.

But It's Silly To Suggest The Writing Of Poetry Is Something Ethereal, A Sort Of Soul-crashing, Devastating Emotional Experience That Wrings You. I Have No Fancy Ideas About Poetry. ... It Doesn't Come To You On The Wings Of A Dove. It's Something You Have To Work Hard At.

I'll Lie Here And Learn How, Over Their Ground, Trees Make A Long Shadow And A Light Sound.