The Ground Has On Its Clothes. The

Maybe I Am Becoming A Hermit, Opening The Door For Only A Few Special Animals? Maybe My Skull Is Too Crowded And It Has No Opening Through Which To Feed It Soup?

Poems Aren't Postcards To Send Home.

The Tongue, The Chinese Say, Is Like A Sharp Knife: It Kills Without Drawing Blood.

Unless I Can Shake Myself Free Of My Dog, My Flag, Of My Desk, My Mind, I Find Life A Bit Of A Drag. Not Always, Mind You. Usually I'm Like My Frying Pan Useful, Graceful, Sturdy And With No Caper, No Plan.

Everyone In Me Is A Bird I Am Beating All My Wings