The Poetry Is Myself.

With Melted Opals For My Milk, Pearl-leaf For My Cracker.

Words Can Do Wonderful Things. They Pound, Purr. They Can Urge, They Can Wheedle, Whip, Whine. They Can Sing, Sass, Singe. They Can Churn, Check, Channelize. They Can Be A "hup Two Three Four." They Can Forge A Fiery Army Of A Hundred Languid Men.

Writing Is A Delicious Agony.

As You Get Older, You Find That Often The Wheat, Disentangling Itself From The Chaff, Comes Out To Meet You.

I've Always Thought Of Myself As A Reporter.