You Come To Know The Aches And

I Have Published In 'the New Yorker,' 'holiday,' 'life,' 'mademoiselle,' 'american Heritage,' 'horizon,' 'the Ladies Home Journal,' 'the Kenyon Review,' 'the Sewanee Review,' 'poetry,' 'botteghe Oscure,' The 'atlantic Monthly,' 'harper's.'

I Grew Up In The Prolonged Survival Of The Great Age Of The Horse, With Harness And Saddle And Sleigh Bells And Horse Pictures, Not As Antiques But The Facts Of Our Lives.

The Years Rolled Their Brutal Course Down The Hill Of Time. Still Poor, My Clothes Still Smelling Of The Horse Barn, Still Writing Those Doubtful Poems Where Too Much Emotion Clashed With Too Many Words.

Other Families Bought Automobiles; We Had A Horse-headed Hitching Post In Front Of Our House And Drove Horses.

All Poetry Is An Ordered Voice, One Which Tries To Tell You About A Vision In The Un-visionary Language Of Farm, City, And Love.