Poetry - Poiesis Means A Thing Made.

I Don't Know That We Really Think Any Thoughts; We Think Connections Between Thoughts. That's Where The Mind Moves, That's What's New, And The Thoughts Themselves Have Probably Been There In My Head Or Lots Of Other People's Heads For A Long Time.

Each Night About This Time He Puts On Sadness Like A Garment And Goes On Writing.

A Man Moves Through Time. It Means Nothing Except That, Like A Harpoon, Once Thrown He Will Arrive.

What Would It Be Like To Live In A Library Of Melted Books. With Sentences Streaming Over The Floor And All The Punctuation Settled To The Bottom As A Residue. It Would Be Confusing. Unforgivable. A Great Adventure.

No Need To Fear Death. There Will Be A Tunnel And Light.