There Never Was A War

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

A Man Is A Writer If All His Words Are Strung In Definite Sentence Sounds.

When We Think We Don't Like Art It Is Because It Is Artificial Art.

Poetry, That Is To Say The Poetic, Is A Primal Necessity.

At All Events There Is In Brooklyn Something That Makes Me Feel At Home.