If We Think Of What's

Where I Lived - Winter And Hard Earth.i Sat In My Cold Stone Roomchoosing Tough Words, Granite, Flint,to Break The Ice. My Broken Heart -i Tried That, But It Skimmed,flat, Over The Frozen Lake.she Came From A Long, Long Way,but I Saw Her At Last, Walking,my Daughter, My Girl, Across The Fields,in Bare Feet, Bringing All Spring's Flowersto Her Mother's House. I Swearthe Air Softened And Warmed As She Moved,the Blue Sky Smiling, None Too Soon,with The Small Shy Mouth Of A New Moon.

I Have Piles Of Poetry Books In The Bathroom, On The Stairs, Everywhere. The Only Way To Write Poetry Is To Read It.

I Like To Think That I'm A Sort Of Poet For Our Times.

Poets Sing Our Human Music For Us.

You Have Me Like A Drawing, Erased, Coloured In, Untitled, Signed By Your Tongue.