The Heart Hid Still In The Dark,

A Poem, Being An Instance Of Language, Hence Essentially Dialogue, May Be A Letter In A Bottle Thrown Out To The Sea With The-surely Not Always Strong-hope That It May Somehow Wash Up Somewhere, Perhaps On The Shoreline Of The Heart. In This Way, Too, Poems Are En Route: They Are Headed Towards. Toward What? Toward Something Open, Inhabitable, An Approachable You, Perhaps, An Approachable Reality. Such Realities Are, I Think, At Stake In A Poem.

Black Milk Of Daybreak We Drink It At Sundown.

Reality Is Not Simply There, It Does Not Simply Exist: It Must Be Sought Out And Won.

The Two Heart-grey Puddles: Two Mouthsfull Of Silence.

The Language With Which I Make My Poems Has Nothing To Do With One Spoken Here, Or Anywhere.