I Feel That Poetry Is

Until Only Infinity Remained Of Beauty

A Yak Is A Prehistoric Cabbage; Of That, We Can Be Sure.

The Summer Demands And Takes Away Too Much. /but Night, The Reserved, The Reticent, Gives More Than It Takes

One Listens To A Piece Of Great Music, Say, And Feels Deeply Moved By It, And Wants To Put This Feeling Into Words, But It Can't Be Put Into Words. That's What - The Music Has Already Supplied The Meaning, And Words Will Just Be Superfluous After That. But It's That Kind Of Verbal Meaning That Can't Be Verbalized That I Try To Get At In Poetry.

Things Can Harden Meaningfully In The Moment Of Indecision