It was here we turned the coffee cups upside down. And your eyes and the moon swept the valley.

Our lives are like a candle in the wind.

Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.

If the facts are against you, argue the law. If the law is against you, argue the facts. If the law and the facts are against you, pound the table and yell like hell

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.

Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.

I have become infected, now that I see how beautifully a book is coming out of all this.