There Is Something Very Satisfactory About Being

I Have Experienced Healing Through Other Writers' Poetry, But There's No Way I Can Sit Down To Write In The Hope A Poem Will Have Healing Potential. If I Do, I'll Write A Bad Poem.

Did You Love Well What Very Soon You Left? Come Home And Take Me In Your Arms And Take Away This Stomach Ache, Headache, Heartache. Never So Full, I Never Was Bereft So Utterly. The Winter Evenings Drift Dark To The Window. Not One Work Will Make You, Where You Are, Turn In Your Day, Or Wake From Your Night Toward Me. The Only Gift I Got To Keep Or Give Is What I've Cried, Floodgates Let Down To Mourning For The Dead Chances, For The End Of Being Young, For Everyone I Loved Who Really Died. I Drank Our One Year Out In Brine Instead Of Honey From The Seasons Of Your Tongue.

The Ambiguities Of Language, Both In Terms Of Vocabulary And Syntax, Are Fascinating: How Important Connotation Is, What Is Lost And What Is Gained In The Linguistic Transition.

Did You Love Well What You Very Soon Left? Come Home And Take Me In Your Arms And Take Away This Stomach Ache, Headache, Heartache.

I Started To Send My Work To Journals When I Was 26, Which Was Just A Question Of When I Got The Courage Up. They Were Mostly Journals I Had Been Reading For The Previous Six Or Seven Years.