Poetry: Three Mismatched Shoes At

I Was Already Dozing Off In The Shade, Dreaming That The Rustling Trees Were My Many Selves Explaining Themselves All At The Same Time So That I Could Not Make Out A Single Word. My Life Was A Beautiful Mystery On The Verge Of Understanding, Always On The Verge! Think Of It!

Poetry Is An Orphan Of Silence. The Words Never Quite Equal The Experience Behind Them.

The World Is Beautiful But Not Sayable. That's Why We Need Art.

Words Make Love On The Page Like Flies In The Summer Heat And The Poet Is Only The Bemused Spectator.

Poetry Is An Orphan Of Silence.