As A Memoirist, I Strive For Veracity.

Such A Small, Pure Object A Poem Could Be, Made Of Nothing But Air A Tiny String Of Letters, Maybe Small Enough To Fit In The Palm Of Your Hand. But It Could Blow Everybody's Head Off.

Im Always Terrified When Im Writing.

The Lesson You've Got To Learn Is The Someday You'll Someday Stagger To, Blinking In Cold Light, All Tears Shed, Ready To Poke Your Bovine Head In The Yoke They've Shaped. Everyone Learns This. Born, Everyone Breathes, Pays Tax, Plants Dead And Hurts Galore. There's Grief Enough For Each. My Mother Learned By Moving Man To Man, Outlived Them All. The Parched Earth's Bare (once She Leaves It) Of Any Who Watched The Instants I Trod It. Other Than Myself, Of Course. I've Made A Study Of Bearing And Forbearance. Everyone Does, It Turns Out, And Note Those Faces Passing By: Not One's A God.

I Find A Great Deal Of Comfort And Care In My Faith And Prayer. I'd Sooner Do Without Air Than Prayer.

If You Live In The Dark A Long Time And The Sun Comes Out, You Do Not Cross Into It Whistling. There's An Initial Uprush Of Relief At First, Then-for Me, Anyway- A Profound Dislocation. My Old Assumptions About How The World Works Are Buried, Yet My New Ones Aren't Yet Operational.there's Been A Death Of Sorts, But Without A Few Days In Hell, No Resurrection Is Possible.