It Is My Heart That's Late, It

How Shall The Heart Be Reconciled / To Its Feast Of Losses?

I Associate The Garden With The Whole Experience Of Being Alive, And So, There Is Nothing In The Range Of Human Experience That Is Separate From What The Garden Can Signify In Its Eagerness And Its Insistence, And In Its Driving Energy To Live -- To Grow, To Bear Fruit.

Poetry Is Language Surprised In The Act Of Changing Into Meaning.

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

A Longing For The Dance Stirs In The Buried Life.