It Is My Heart That's Late, It

Rhythm To Me Is Essentially What Hopkins Called The Taste Of Self. I Taste Myself As Rhythm.

Memory Is Each Man's Poet-in-residence.

What Makes The Engine Go? Desire, Desire, Desire.

An Old Poet Ought Never To Be Caught With His Technique Showing.

How Shall The Heart Be Reconciled / To Its Feast Of Losses?