The Irony Is, Going To Work Every

You Have Begun To Separate The Dark From The Dark.

My Father Died When I Was Five, But I Grew Up In A Strong Family.

Now I Think Poetry Will Save Nothing From Oblivion, But I Keep Writing About The Ordinary Because For Me It's The Home Of The Extraordinary, The Only Home.

I Say, Father, The Years Have Brought Me Here, Still Your Son, They Have Brought Me To A Life I Cannot Understand.

Meet Some People Who Care About Poetry The Way You Do. You'll Have That Readership. Keep Going Until You Know You're Doing Work That's Worthy. And Then See What Happens. That's My Advice.