Live In The Layers, Not On The

Memory Is Each Man's Poet-in-residence.

When They Shall Paint Our Sockets Gray And Light Us Like A Stinking Fuse, Remember That We Once Could Say, Yesterday We Had A World To Lose.

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

I Dropped My Hoe And Ran Into The House And Started To Write This Poem, 'end Of Summer.’ It Began As A Celebration Of Wild Geese. Eventually The Geese Flew Out Of The Poem, But I Like To Think They Left Behind The Sound Of Their Beating Wings.

The Universe Is A Continuous Web. Touch It At Any Point And The Whole Web Quivers.