I Long For The Imperishable Quiet At

A Lively Understandable Spirit Once Entertained You. It Will Come Again. Be Still. Wait.

You Must Believe A Poem Is A Holy Thing, A Good Poem, That Is.

Wake The Happy Words.

My Papa's Waltz: The Whiskey On Your Breath Could Make A Small Boy Dizzy; But I Hung On Like Death: Such Waltzing Was Not Easy. We Romped Until The Pans Slid From The Kitchen Shelf; My Mother's Countenance Could Not Unfrown Itself. The Hand That Held My Wrist Was Battered On One Knuckle; At Every Step You Missed My Right Ear Scraped A Buckle. You Beat Time On My Head With A Palm Caked Hard By Dirt, Then Waltzed Me Off To Bed Still Clinging To Your Shirt.

I Learn By Going Where I Have To Go.