In A Poem The Words

The Small Tuft Of Fronds Or Katydid Legs Above Each Eye, Still Numbering The Units In Each Group; The Shadbones Regularly Set About The Mouth, To Droop Or Rise

When You Take My Time, You Take Something I Had Meant To Use.

Poetry Is The Art Of Creating Imaginary Gardens With Real Toads.

The Mind Is An Enchanting Thing.

The Ocean, Under The Pulsation Of Lighthouses And Noise Of Bell Buoys, Advances As Usual, Looking As If It Were Not That Ocean In Which Dropped Things Are Bound To Sink-- In Which If They Turn And Twist, It Is Neither With Volition Nor Consciousness.