Nothing Happens... But First A Dream.

Poetry Is A Section Of River-fog And Moving Boat-lights, Delivered Between Bridges And Whistles, So One Says, 'oh!' And Another, 'how?'

The Single Clenched Fist Lifted And Ready, Or The Open Asking Hand Held Out And Waiting. Choose: For We Meet By One Or The Other.

There Are Dreams Stronger Than Death. Men And Women Die Holding These Dreams.

Poetry Is A Projection Across Silence Of Cadences Arranged To Break That Silence With Definite Intentions Of Echoes, Syllables, Wave Lengths.

It Is The Business Of Little Minds To Shrink.