Once Fishing Was A Rabbit's Foot-- O

It's The Light Of The Oncoming Train.

I Myself Am Hell; Nobody's Here

I'm Sure That Writing Isn't A Craft, That Is, Something For Which You Learn The Skills And Go On Turning Out. It Must Come From Some Deep Impulse, Deep Inspiration. That Can't Be Taught, It Can't Be What You Use In Teaching.

September Twenty-second, Sir, The Bough Cracks With Unpicked Apples, And At Dawn The Small-mouth Bass Breaks Water, Gorged With Spawn.

Wallowing In This Bloody Sty, I Cast For Fish That Pleased My Eye