Poetry Is A Shuffling Of Boxes Of

Poetry Is A Packsack Of Invisible Keepsakes.

Time Is The Coin Of Our Live. We Must Take Care How We Spend It.

Tongues Wrangled Dark At A Man. He Buttoned His Overcoat And Stood Alone. In A Snowstorm, Red Hollyberries, Thoughts, He Stood Alone.

Corn Wind In The Fall, Come Off The Black Lands, Come Off The Whisper Of The Silk Hangers, The Lap Of The Flat Spear Leaves.

You Know Being Born Is Important To You. You Know Nothing Else Was Ever So Important To You.