We Are Asleep With Compasses In Our

I Think There's A Kind Of Desperate Hope Built Into Poetry That One Really Wants, Hopelessly, To Save The World. One Is Trying To Say Everything That Can Be Said For The Things That One Loves While There's Still Time.

Your Absence Has Gone Through Me

I Wouldn't Be Happy About Being Considered A Love Poet Or An Environmental - I Don't Want Any Of Those Tags.

The Story Of Each Stone Leads Back To A Mountain.

My Words Are The Garment Of What I Shall Never Be Like The Tucked Sleeve Of A One-armed Boy.