How Weightless/ Words Are When

But I'm Too Old To Be Written About As A Young Poet.

Now I Think Poetry Will Save Nothing From Oblivion, But I Keep Writing About The Ordinary Because For Me It's The Home Of The Extraordinary, The Only Home.

Now I Must Wait And Be Still And Say Nothing I Don't Know, Nothing I Haven't Lived Over And Over, And That's Everything.

I'm Afraid We Live At The Mercy Of A Power, Maybe A God, Without Mercy. And Yet We Find It, As I Have, From Others.

My Father Died When I Was Five, But I Grew Up In A Strong Family.