Poetry Is A Sort Of Homecoming.

He Speaks Truly Who Speaks The Shade.

The Heart Hid Still In The Dark, Hard As The Philosophers Stone.

A Poem, As A Manifestation Of Language And Thus Essentially Dialogue, Can Be A Message In A Bottle, Sent Out In The –not Always Greatly Hopeful-belief That Somewhere And Sometime It Could Wash Up On Land, On Heartland Perhaps. Poems In This Sense Too Are Under Way: They Are Making Toward Something. Toward What? Toward Something Standing Open, Occupiable, Perhaps Toward An Addressable Thou, Toward An Addressable Reality.

Rush Of Pine Scent (once Upon A Time), The Unlicensed Conviction There Ought To Be Another Way Of Saying This.

Death Is A Master From Germany.