The Supreme Morality Of Art Is To

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

What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire, Desire.

I Dropped My Hoe And Ran Into The House And Started To Write This Poem, 'end Of Summer.’ It Began As A Celebration Of Wild Geese. Eventually The Geese Flew Out Of The Poem, But I Like To Think They Left Behind The Sound Of Their Beating Wings.

An Old Poet Ought Never To Be Caught With His Technique Showing.

The Universe Is A Continuous Web. Touch It At Any Point And The Whole Web Quivers.