It Is Curious How Any

There The Door Is Always Open Into The “holy” — Growth, Birth, Death.

Poems Like To Have A Destination For Their Flight. They Are Homing Pigeons.

In The Country Of Pain We Are Each Alone.

There Were Moments ... When It Seemed That All One Could Be Asked Was Just To Keep The Ashtrays Clean, The Bed Made, The Wastebaskets Emptied, As If One Never Got To The Real Things Because Of The Constant Exhausting Battle To Keep Ordinary Life From Falling Apart.

Solitude Is The Salt Of Personhood. It Brings Out The Authentic Flavor Of Every Experience.