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

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.

Not That You Need To Be A Saint To Have Visions Worth Talking About. The Most Effective Prescription, I Suspect, Is To Be A Disciplined Sinner. Perfection, As Valery Noted, Is Work.

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

The Ear Writes My Poems, Not The Mind.

Poetry Is Language Surprised In The Act Of Changing Into Meaning.