And how should a beautiful, ignorant stream of water know it heads for an early release — out across the desert, running toward the Gulf, below sea level, to murmur its lullaby, and see the Imperial Valley rise out of burning sand with cotton blossoms, wheat, watermelons, roses, how should it know?

Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.

Let the gentle bush dig its root deep and spread upward to split the boulder.

Poetry is a sequence of dots and dashes, spelling depths, crypts, cross-lights, and moon wisps.

Come on, you Do you want to live forever?

An expert is a damn fool a long way from home.

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