I Am Not At Home In Myself.

Today Is Made Of Yesterday, Each Time I Steal Toward Rites I Do Not Know, Waiting For The Lost Ingredient, As If Salt Or Money Or Even Lust Would Keep Us Calm And Prove Us Whole At Last.

Poetry Is My Life, My Postmark, My Hands, My Kitchen, My Face.

Now, In My Middle Age, About Nineteen In The Head I'd Say, I Am Rowing, I Am Rowing.

Craft Is A Trick You Make Up To Let You Write The Poem.

There Is An Animal Inside Me, Clutching Fast To My Heart, A Huge Crab.