Forgive Me If I Sleep Until I

My Life Has Been Given Its Orders: The Seasons Seize The Soul And The Body, And Make Mock Of Any Dispersed Effort. The Hour Of Death Is The Only Trespass

Knowledge Is The Harvest Of Attention

I Defer To All These Other American Poets Who, For Some Reason, I Both Envy And Admire.

Love Is Form, And Cannot Be Without Important Substance

The Body Whips The Soul. In Its Great Desire It Demands The Elixir In The Roar Of Spring, Transmutations.