Rocks Crumble, Make New Forms,

It Is A Dead Heart. It Is Inside Of Me. It Is A Stranger Yet Once It Was Agreeable, Opening And Closing Like A Clam.

The Body Is A Damn Hard Thing To Kill.

Those Moments Before A Poem Comes, When The Heightened Awareness Comes Over You, And You Realize A Poem Is Buried There Somewhere, You Prepare Yourself. I Run Around, You Know, Kind Of Skipping Around The House, Marvelous Elation. It’s As Though I Could Fly.

Let There Be Seasons So That Our Tongues Will Be Rich In Asparagus And Limes.

I Said, The Poets Are There I Hear Them Singing And Lying Around Their Round Table And Around Me Still.