What Are The Questions You

I Wish I Could Press Snowflakes In A Book Like Flowers.

Snow Falling Softly On Lashes Of Eyes You Love, And A Cold Cheek Growing Warm Next To Your Own In Hushed Dark Familial December.

It Seems To Me That Readers Sometimes Make The Genesis Of A Poem More Mysterious Than It Is (by That I Perhaps Mean, Think Of It As Something Outside Their Own Experience)

The Aim Of The Poet, Or Other Artist, Is First To Make Something; And It's Impossible To Make Something Out Of Words And Not Communicate

One Tends To Write Beyond What's Needed