It's A Little Mad, But I Believe

Somebody Who Should Have Been Born Is Gone.

A Woman Who Writes Feels Too Much.

Those Moments Before A Poem Comes, When The Heightened Awareness Comes Over You, And You Realize A Poem Is Buried There Somewhere, You Prepare Yourself. I Run Around, You Know, Kind Of Skipping Around The House, Marvelous Elation. It’s As Though I Could Fly.

The Grass As Bristly And Stout As Chives And Me Wondering When The Ground Will Break And Me Wondering How Anything Fragile Survives

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