Tell no man anything, for no man listens Yet hold thy lips ready to speak.
I am! I have come through! I belong!
Poetry is the silence and speech between a wet struggling root of a flower and a sunlit blossom of that flower.
Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts.
Newspapers tell beforehand what is going to happen - maybe.
Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?