From 1968 On, I Was Pretty Much

It Is Not That Love Sometimes Makes Mistakes, But That It Is, Essentially, A Mistake. We Fall In Love When Our Imagination Projects Nonexistent Perfections On To Another Person. One Day The Phantasmagoria Vanishes, And With It Love Dies.

The Poems ... Are Moments When I Had The Intensity To See, And The Energy To Build, Some Careful Analog That Completed The Seeing. ... All I Have Been Left Is The Exhausting Habit Of Trying To Tack Up The Slack In My Life With Words.

I Am In Terror Of The Infinity Before Me, Having Come Through The One Behind Bringing No Knowledge I Can Take On.

A Poet Is Wounded Into Speech, And He Examines These Wounds, Meticulously, To Discover How To Heal Them. The Bad Poet Harangues At The Pain And Yowls At The Weapons That Lacerate Him; The Great Poet Explores The Inflamed Lips Of Ruined Flesh With Ice-caked Fingers, Glittering And Precise; But Ultimately His Poem Is The Echoing, Dual Voice Reporting The Damages.

Ah, Well, During The Middle Ages, Religion Was Often Able To Redeem Art. Today, However, Art Is About The Only Thing That Can Redeem Religion, And The Clerics Will Never Forgive Us For That.