The Canadian Voice Is Still Too Rustic.

Dead, Hung Up Indoors, The Kingfisher Will Not Indicate A Favoring Wind, Or Avert The Thunderbolt.

What Can We Do When Even The Public Conveyances Sing? How Can We Go Anywhere, Even Cross-town How Get Out Of Anywhere

The Body Whips The Soul. In Its Great Desire It Demands The Elixir In The Roar Of Spring, Transmutations.

The Canadian Voice Is Still Too Rustic.

You Don't Help People In Your Poems. I've Been Trying To Help People All My Life - That's My Trouble