Poets Are Sitting In My Kitchen. Why

Blind With Love, My Daughter Has Cried Nightly For Horses, Those Long-necked Marchers And Churners That She Has Mastered, Any And All, Reigning Them In Like A Circus Hand.

When I'm Writing, I Know I'm Doing The Thing I Was Born To Do.

Daylight Is Nobody's Friend. God Comes In Like A Landlord And Flashes On His Brassy Lamp.

My Life Has Appeared Unclothed In Court, Detail By Detail, Death-bone Witness By Death-bone Witness, And I Was Shamed At The Verdict.

Talk To Me About Sadness. I Talk About It Too Much In My Own Head But I Never Mind Others Talking About It Either; I Occasionally Feel Like I Tremendously Need Others To Talk About It As Well.