May My Silences Become More Accurate.

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

You Must Believe: A Poem Is A Holy Thing - A Good Poem, That Is. The Poem, Even A Short Time After Being Written, Seems No Miracle; Unwritten, It Seems Something Beyond The Capacity Of The Gods.

Death Was Not. I Lived In A Simple Drowse:hands And Hair Moved Through A Dream Of Wakening Blossoms.rain Sweetened The Cave And The Dove Still Called;the Flowers Leaned On Themselves, The Flowers In Hollows;and Love, Love Sang Toward.

Being, Not Doing, Is My First Joy.

Those Who Are Willing To Be Vulnerable Move Among Mysteries.