To Write You Must Be

One Of The Great Criticisms Of Poets Of The Past Is That They Said One Thing And Did Another.

My Mother, Who Hates Thunderstorms, Holds Up Each Summer Day And Shakes It Out Suspiciously, Lest Swarms Of Grape-dark Clouds Are Lurking There.

The Trees Are Coming Into Leaf Like Something Almost Being Said.

A Writer Once Said To Me, If You Ever Go To America, Go Either To The East Coast Or The West Coast: The Rest Is A Desert Full Of Bigots. That's What I Think I'd Like . . . A Version Of Pastoral.

You Can't Put Off Being Young Until You Retire.