Love Is Form, And Cannot Be Without

The Canadian Voice Is Still Too Rustic.

What Pudor Pejorocracy Affronts How Awe, Night-rest And Neighborhood Can Rot What Breeds Where Dirtiness Is Law What Crawls Below

I Defer To All These Other American Poets Who, For Some Reason, I Both Envy And Admire.

This Morning Of The Small Snow I Count The Blessings, The Leak In The Faucet Which Makes Of The Sink Time, The Drop Of The Water On Water.

Forgive Me If I Sleep Until I Wake Up.