The Facts Of History Have

To The Poet As A Basement Quilt, But Perhaps To Some Reader A Latticework Of Regrets.

The Poem Is Sad Because It Wants To Be Yours, And Cannot Be.

We Might Realize That The Present Moment May Be One Of An Eternal Or Sempiternal Series Of Moments, All Of Which Will Resemble It Because, In Some Ways, They Are The Present, And Won't In Other Ways, Because The Present Will Be The Past By That Time.

I Write With Experiences In Mind, But I Don't Write About Them, I Write Out Of Them.

I Feel That Poetry Is Going On All The Time Inside, An Underground Stream.