And So We Turn The Page Over.

The Poem Is Sad Because It Wants To Be Yours, And Cannot Be.

Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

I Lost My Ridiculous Accent Without Acquiring Another

One Listens To A Piece Of Great Music, Say, And Feels Deeply Moved By It, And Wants To Put This Feeling Into Words, But It Can't Be Put Into Words. That's What - The Music Has Already Supplied The Meaning, And Words Will Just Be Superfluous After That. But It's That Kind Of Verbal Meaning That Can't Be Verbalized That I Try To Get At In Poetry.

The Promise Of Learning Is A Delusion.... Tomorrow Would Alter The Sense Of What Had Already Been Learned, That The Learning Process Is Extended In This Way, So That From This Standpoint None Of Us Ever Graduates From College, For Time Is An Emulsion, And Probably Thinking Not To Grow Up Is The Brightest Kind Of Maturity For Us, Right Now At Any Rate.