A Page With A Poem On It

No Need To Fear Death. There Will Be A Tunnel And Light.

Simply Do Something Else And Return To It Later To Find The Problem Wasn't A Problem At All. Ruptures Almost Always Lead To A Stronger Project.

Small, Red, And Upright He Waited, Gripping His New Bookbag Tight In One Hand And Touching A Lucky Penny Inside His Coat Pocket With The Other, While The First Snows Of Winter Floated Down On His Eyelashes And Covered The Branches Around Him And Silenced All Trace Of The World.

He Came After Homer And Before Gertrude Stein, A Difficult Interval For A Poet.

Prowling The Meanings Of A Word, Prowling The History Of A Person, No Use Expecting A Flood Of Light. Human Words Have No Main Switch. But All Those Little Kidnaps In The Dark. And Then The Luminous, Big, Shivering, Discandied, Unrepentant, Barking Web Of Them That Hangs In Your Mind When You Turn Back To The Page You Were Trying To Translate.