Home Is So Sad. It Stays As

As A Guiding Principle I Believe That Every Poem Must Be Its Own Sole Freshly Created Universe, And Therefore Have No Belief N 'tradition' Or A Common Myth-kitty Or Casual Allusions In Poems To Other Poems Or Poets, Which Last I Find Unpleasantly Like The Talk Of Literary Understrappers Letting You See They Know The Right People.

I Think That At The Bottom Of All Art Lies The Impulse To Preserve.

On Me Your Voice Falls As They Say Love Should, Like An Enormous Yes.

I Never Think Of Poetry Or The Poetry Scene, Only Separate Poems Written By Individuals.

Here Silence Stands Like Heat. Here Leaves Unnoticed Thicken, Hidden Weeds Flower, Neglected Waters Quicken, Luminously-peopled Air Ascends; And Past The Poppies Bluish Neutral Distance Ends The Land Suddenly Beyond A Beach Of Shapes And Shingle. Here Is Unfenced Existence: Facing The Sun, Untalkative, Out Of Reach.