The Truth Is Dark Under Your Eyelids.

In Their Effort To Divorce Language And Experience, Deconstructionist Critics Remind Me Of Middle-class Parents Who Do Not Allow Their Children To Play In The Street.

Poetry: Three Mismatched Shoes At The Entrance Of A Dark Alley.

The Poem I Want To Write Is Impossible. A Stone That Floats.

The Stars Know Everything, So We Try To Read Their Minds. As Distant As They Are, We Choose To Whisper In Their Presence.

There’s No Preparation For Poetry.