The First Year Was Like Icing. Then

And Just As There Are No Words For The Surface, That Is, No Words To Say What It Really Is, That It Is Not Superficial But A Visible Core, Then There Is No Way Out Of The Problem Of Pathos Vs. Experience.

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

I Like Poems You Can Tack All Over With A Hammer And There Are No Hollow Places.

The Ellipse Is As Aimless As That, Stretching Invisibly Into The Future So As To Reappear In Our Present. Its Flexing Is Its Account, Return To The Point Of No Return.

This Whole Moment Is The Groin Of A Borborygmic Giant Who Even Now Is Rolling Over On Us In His Sleep.