Poetry Is A Way Of

Modern Poetry, For Me, Began Not In English At All But In Spanish, In The Poems Of Lorca.

After An Age Of Leaves And Feathers Someone Dead Thought Of The Mountain As Money And Cut The Trees That Were Here And The Wind And The Rain At Night. It Is Hard To Say It.

What You Remember Saves You.

I Needed My Mistakes In Their Order To Get Me Here

Sitting Over Words Very Late I Have Heard A Kind Of Whispered Sighing Not Far Like A Night Wind In Pines Or Like The Sea In The Dark The Echo Of Everything That Has Ever Been Spoken Still Spinning Its One Syllable Between The Earth And Silence.