However, If A Poem Can

Looking At The Sky Last Night And The Moon In The First Fresh Dark, Just A Few Stars, Bright With Their Cold Flares, I Had A Little Crumpled Thought, 'oh Well, The Moon. It's Just Another Place Like California.' One's Imagination Drags Its Feet As We Are Inexorably Hauled Into The Future.

In The Past I Have Declined To Comment On My Own Work: Because, It Seems To Me, A Poem Is What It Is; Because A Poem Is Itself A Definition, And To Try To Redefine It Is To Be Apt To Falsify It; And Because The Author Is The Person Least Able To Consider His Work Objectively

One Tends To Write Beyond What's Needed

I Wish I Could Press Snowflakes In A Book Like Flowers.

A Nothing Day Full Of Wild Beauty .... Little Fish Stream By, A River In Water.