What Is There More Of In The

The Wind Bit Hard At Valley Forge One Christmas. Soldiers Tied Rags On Their Feet. Red Footprints Wrote On The Snow...

The Machine Yes The Machine Never Wastes Anybody's Time Never Watches The Foreman Never Talks Back.

Yesterday And Tomorrow Cross And Mix On The Skyline. The Two Are Lost In A Purple Haze. One Forgets, One Waits.

I Wrote Poems In My Corner Of The Brooks Street Station. I Sent Them To Two Editors Who Rejected Them Right Off. I Read Those Letters Of Rejection Years Later And I Agreed With Those Editors.

Poetry Is An Enumeration Of Birds, Bees, Babies, Butterflies, Bugs, Bambinos, Babayagas, And Bipeds, Beating Their Way Up Bewildering Bastions.