Poetry Is The Enemy Of The Poem.

How Shall The Heart Be Reconciled / To Its Feast Of Losses?

Poetry Is Language Surprised In The Act Of Changing Into Meaning.

Rhythm To Me Is Essentially What Hopkins Called The Taste Of Self. I Taste Myself As Rhythm.

When They Shall Paint Our Sockets Gray And Light Us Like A Stinking Fuse, Remember That We Once Could Say, Yesterday We Had A World To Lose.

A Longing For The Dance Stirs In The Buried Life.