And All Poets Love Dust And Mist

Time Is A Sandpile We Run Our Fingers In.

So I Turn Once More To Those Who Sneer At This My City, And I Give Them Back The Sneer And Say To Them: Come And Show Me Another City With Lifted Head Singing So Proud To Be Alive And Coarse And Strong And Cunning.

Poetry Is A Plan For A Slit In The Face Of A Bronze Fountain Goat And The Path Of Fresh Drinking Water.

Poetry Is A Shuffling Of Boxes Of Illusions Buckled With A Strap Of Facts.

I Was Up Day And Night With Lincoln For Years. I Couldn't Have Picked A Better Companion.