Poetry Is Mostly Hunches.

The Mind Is So Hospitable, Taking In Everything Like Boarders, And You Don't See Until It's All Over How Little There Was To Learn Once The Stench Of Knowledge Has Dissipated.

Things Can Harden Meaningfully In The Moment Of Indecision

The Sun Fades Like The Spreading Of A Peacock's Tail, As Though Twilight Might Be Read As A Warning To Those Desperate For Easy Solutions.

The Gray Glaze Of The Past Attacks All Know-how...

The Poem Is Sad Because It Wants To Be Yours, And Cannot Be.