One Writes Because One Has

Of The Crow-blue Mussel Shells, One Keeps Adjusting The Ash Heaps; Opening And Shutting Itself Like An Injured Fan.

Sun And Moon And Day And Night And Man And Beast Each With A Splendor Which Man In All His Vileness Cannot Set Aside; Each With An Excellence!

One Writes Because One Has A Burning Desire To Objectify What It Is Indispensable To One's Happiness To Express.

I Never 'plan' A Stanza. Words Cluster Like Chromosomes, Determining The Procedure.

In A Poem The Words Should Be As Pleasing To The Ear As The Meaning Is To The Mind.