For Inside All The Weakness Of Old

The More Articulate One Is, The More Dangerous Words Become.

Making Order Out Of Disorder Any Time, Anywhere, Can Be Regarded As A Sacrament.

Do I Think There's Life After Death? No, I Think My Books Are My Life After Death.

Poems Like To Have A Destination For Their Flight. They Are Homing Pigeons.

In The Middle Of The Night, Things Well Up From The Past That Are Not Always Cause For Rejoicing--the Unsolved, The Painful Encounters, The Mistakes, The Reasons For Shame Or Woe. But All, Good Or Bad, Give Me Food For Thought, Food To Grow On.