I Feel That Poetry Is Going On

Expecting Rain, The Profile Of A Day Wears Its Soul Like A Hat.

The Summer Demands And Takes Away Too Much. /but Night, The Reserved, The Reticent, Gives More Than It Takes

Will Occur As Time Grows More Open About It.

If You Need A Certain Vitality You Can Only Supply It Yourself, Or There Comes A Point, Anyway, When No One's Actions But Your Own Seem Dramatically Convincing And Justifiable In The Plot That The Number Of Your Days Concocts.

I Like Poems You Can Tack All Over With A Hammer And There Are No Hollow Places.