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.

The marvelous rebellion of man at all signs reading "Keep Off.

Poetry is a tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.

The fog comes on little cat feet.

Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.

Gather the stars if you wish it so Gather the songs and keep them. Gather the faces of women. Gather for keeping years and years. And then... Loosen your hands, let go and say good-bye. Let the stars and songs go. Let the faces and years go. Loosen your hands and say good-bye.

When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.