Death Is No Different Whined At Than

What Are Days For? Days Are Where We Live.

It Becomes Still More Difficult To Find
words At Once True And Kind,
or Not Untrue And Not Unkind.

A Writer Once Said To Me, If You Ever Go To America, Go Either To The East Coast Or The West Coast: The Rest Is A Desert Full Of Bigots. That's What I Think I'd Like . . . A Version Of Pastoral.

I Never Think Of Poetry Or The Poetry Scene, Only Separate Poems Written By Individuals.

If We Seriously Contemplate Life It Appears An Agony Too Great To Be Supported, But For The Most Part Our Minds Gloss Such Things Over & Until The Ice Finally Lets Us Through We Skate About Merrily Enough. Most People, I'm Convinced, Don't Think About Life At All. They Grab What They Think They Want And The Subsequent Consequences Keep Them Busy In An Endless Chain Till They're Carried Out Feet First.