I Feel The Terror Of

I've Always Wanted To Write Poems And Nothing Else.

You Want To Cry Aloud For Your Mistakes. But To Tell The Truth The World Doesn't Need Any More Of That Sound.

I Climb, I Backtrack. I Float. I Ramble My Way Home.

To Find A New Word That Is Accurate And Different, You Have To Be Alert For It.

I Do Not Live Happily Or Comfortably With The Cleverness Of Our Times. The Talk Is All About Computers, The News Is All About Bombs And Blood. This Morning, In The Fresh Field, I Came Upon A Hidden Nest. It Held Four Warm, Speckled Eggs. I Touched Them. Then Went Away Softly, Having Felt Something More Wonderful Than All The Electricity Of New York City.