Poetry Is A Packsack Of Invisible Keepsakes.

And All Poets Love Dust And Mist Because All The Last Answers. Go Running Back To Dust And Mist.

Strange Things Blow In Through My Window On The Wings Of The Night Wind And I Don't Worry About My Destiny.

In The Night The Cabbages Catch At The Moon, The Leaves Drip Silver, The Rows Of Cabbages Are A Series Of Little Silver Waterfalls In The Moon.

My Room For Books And Study Or For Sitting And Thinking About Nothing In Particular To See What Would Happen Was At The End Of A Hall.

Be Careful With Your Words, Once They Are Said, They Can Only Be Forgiven, Not Forgotten.