The First Year Was Like Icing. Then

The Winter Does What It Can For Its Children.

But Always And Sometimes Questioning The Old Modes And The New Wondering, The Poem, Growing Up Through The Floor, Standing Tall In Tubers, Invading And Smashing The Ritual Parlor, Demands To Be Met On Its Own Terms Now, Now That The Preliminary Negotiations Are At Last Over.

A Yak Is A Prehistoric Cabbage; Of That, We Can Be Sure.

In The Increasingly Convincing Darkness The Words Become Palpable, Like A Fruit That Is Too Beautiful To Eat.

To The Poet As A Basement Quilt, But Perhaps To Some Reader A Latticework Of Regrets.