Poetry Is A Packsack Of Invisible Keepsakes.

Poetry Is A Sequence Of Dots And Dashes, Spelling Depths, Crypts, Cross-lights, And Moon Wisps.

I Have Written Some Poetry That I Don't Understand Myself.

Man Is A Long Time Coming. Man Will Yet Win. Brother May Yet Line Up With Brother: This Old Anvil Laughs At Many Broken Hammers.there Are Men Who Can't Be Bought.

The Past Is A Bucket Of Ashes

We Had Two Grand Antique Professors Who Had Been Teaching At Lombard Since Before I Was Born.