It Doesn't Matter What You

I Almost Went To Bed Without Remembering The Four White Violets I Put In The Button-hole Of Your Green Sweater And How I Kissed You Then And You Kissed Me Shy As Though I’d Never Been Your Lover

And May My Bronze Name / Touch Always Her Thousand Fingers / Grow Brighter With Her Weeping / Until I Am Fixed Like A Galaxy / And Memorized / In Her Secret And Fragile Skies.

My Heart Sings Of Your Longing For Me, And My Thoughts Climb Down To Marvel At Your Mercy. I Do Not Fear As You Gather Up My Days. Your Name Is The Sweetness Of Time, And You Carry Me Close Into The Night, Speaking Consolations, Drawing Down Lights From The Sky, Saying, See How The Night Has No Terrors For One Who Remembers The Name.

Prayer Is Translation. A Man Translates Himself Into A Child Asking For All There Is In A Language He Has Barely Mastered.

I Always Thought That Poetry Is The Verdict That Others Give To A Certain Kind Of Writing. So To Call Yourself A Poet Is A Kind Of Dangerous Description. It's For Others; It's For Others To Use.