The shovel is the brother to the gun.
Whenever a people or an institution forget its hard beginnings, it is beginning to decay.
Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.
Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.
Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.
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.