What We Need Is More People Who

I Can Hear, Underground, That Sucking And Sobbing, In My Veins, In My Bones I Feel It,- The Small Water Seeping Upward, The Tight Grains Parting At Last. When Sprouts Break Out, Slippery As Fish, I Quail, Lean To Beginnings, Sheath-wet.

Over Every Mountain There Is A Path, Although It May Not Be Seen From The Valley.

What's Important? That Which Is Dug Out Of Books, Or Out Of The Guts?

May My Silences Become More Accurate.

You Must Believe A Poem Is A Holy Thing, A Good Poem, That Is.