The Canadian Voice Is Still Too Rustic.

Dead, Hung Up Indoors, The Kingfisher Will Not Indicate A Favoring Wind, Or Avert The Thunderbolt.

O.k. I'm Running Out Of Appetite. Let This Swirl- A Bit Like Crab Nebula- Do For Now.

Whatever You Have To Say, Leave The Roots On, Let Them Dangle And The Dirt Just To Make Clear Where They Come From.

Is It Not The Play Of The Mind We Are After? Is It Not That That Shows A Mind Is There At All?

I Defer To All These Other American Poets Who, For Some Reason, I Both Envy And Admire.