Poetry to me is prayer.
Rejoice with the day lily for it is born for a day to live by the mailbox and glorify the roadside
I am alone here in my own mind. There is no map and there is no road. It is one of a kind just as yours is.
Don't bite till you know if it's bread or stone.
Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.
... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.