Art Is A Game Only If You

My Grandmother Was Very Important To Me. She Gave Me My Religious Education. She Gave Me A Sense Of The Female Side Of Judaism, Of The Rich Store Of Stories And Legends Of The Women Of The Schtetl.

The Mind Wraps Itself Around A Poem. It Is Almost Sensual, Particularly If You Work On A Computer. You Can Turn The Poem Round And About And Upside Down, Dancing With It A Kind Of Bolero Of Two Snakes Twisting And Coiling, Until The Poem Has Found Its Right And Proper Shape.

The Pitcher Cries For Water To Carry And A Person For Work That Is Real.

Purple As Tulips In May, Mauve Into Lush Velvet, Purple As The Stain Blackberries Leave On The Lips, On The Hands, The Purple Of Ripe Grapes Sunlit And Warm As Flesh.

Too Much Self-regard Has Never Struck Me As Dignified: Trying To Twist Over My Shoulder To View My Own Behind.