Poetry Is A Packsack Of Invisible Keepsakes.

The Machine Yes The Machine Never Wastes Anybody's Time Never Watches The Foreman Never Talks Back.

Poetry Is An Exhibit Of One Pendulum Connecting With Other And Unseen Pendulums Inside And Outside The One Seen.

Time Is A Sandpile We Run Our Fingers In.

Let The Gentle Bush Dig Its Root Deep And Spread Upward To Split The Boulder.

Lay Me On An Anvil, O God. Beat Me And Hammer Me Into A Steel Spike.