On The Last Day Of

I Have Been Younger In October Than In All The Months Of Spring.

I Think There's A Kind Of Desperate Hope Built Into Poetry That One Really Wants, Hopelessly, To Save The World. One Is Trying To Say Everything That Can Be Said For The Things That One Loves While There's Still Time.

I'm Very Pessimistic About The Future Of The Human Species. We Have Been So Indifferent To Life On The Whole That It Will Take Its Toll. It's Not Just The Polar Bears That Are Having A Hard Time; What We're Doing Is Gradually Impoverishing And Poisoning The Whole Of The Rest Of Life.

Of Course There Is Nothing The Matter With The Stars It Is My Emptiness Among Them While They Drift Farther Away In The Invisible Morning

My Words Are The Garment Of What I Shall Never Be Like The Tucked Sleeve Of A One-armed Boy.