Oh, Must We Dream Our Dreams And

It Is Like What We Imagine Knowledge To Be: Dark, Salt, Clear, Moving, Utterly Free.

Why Shouldn't We, So Generally Addicted To The Gigantic, At Last Have Some Small Works Of Art, Some Short Poems, Short Pieces Of Music [...], Some Intimate, Low-voiced, And Delicate Things In Our Mostly Huge And Roaring, Glaring World?

Think Of The Long Trip Home. Should We Have Stayed Home And Thought Of Here? Where Should We Be Today?

Being A Poet Is One Of The Unhealthier Jobs--no Regular Hours, So Many Temptations!

The Art Of Losing Isn't Hard To Master; So Many Things Seem Filled With The Intent To Be Lost That Their Loss Is No Disaster.