I Like An Ending That's Both A

A Poet Needs To Keep His Wilderness Alive Inside Him.

The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The Mind.

A Longing For The Dance Stirs In The Buried Life.

Some Poems Present Themselves As Cliffs That Need To Be Climbed. Others Are So Defensive That When You Approach Their Enclosure You Half Expect To Be Met By A Snarling Dog At The Gate. Still Others Want To Smother You With Their Sticky Charms.

Forward My Mail To Mars.