I Wish I Could Press Snowflakes In

In The Past I Have Declined To Comment On My Own Work: Because, It Seems To Me, A Poem Is What It Is; Because A Poem Is Itself A Definition, And To Try To Redefine It Is To Be Apt To Falsify It; And Because The Author Is The Person Least Able To Consider His Work Objectively

What Are The Questions You Wish To Ask?

Looking At The Sky Last Night And The Moon In The First Fresh Dark, Just A Few Stars, Bright With Their Cold Flares, I Had A Little Crumpled Thought, 'oh Well, The Moon. It's Just Another Place Like California.' One's Imagination Drags Its Feet As We Are Inexorably Hauled Into The Future.

It Is Always Pleasant To Learn That Someone Takes An Interest In A Work Which One Enjoyed Writing

Snow Falling Softly On Lashes Of Eyes You Love, And A Cold Cheek Growing Warm Next To Your Own In Hushed Dark Familial December.