The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The

I Dance/for The Joy Of Surviving, At The Edge Of The Road.

Live In The Layers, Not On The Litter.

The Poem Comes In The Form Of A Blessing, Like Rapture Breaking On The Mind.

Rhythm To Me Is Essentially What Hopkins Called The Taste Of Self. I Taste Myself As Rhythm.

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.