The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The

A Longing For The Dance Stirs In The Buried Life.

Darling, Do You Remember The Man You Married? Touch Me, Remind Me Who I Am.

A Poet Needs To Keep His Wilderness Alive Inside Him. To Remain A Poet After Forty Requires An Awareness Of Your Darkest Africa, That Part Of Yourself That Will Never Be Tamed.

The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The Mind.

Poetry Is The Enemy Of The Poem.