Come clean with a child heart Laugh as peaches in the summer wind Let rain on a house roof be a song Let the writing on your face be a smell of apple orchards on late June.

What if someone gave a war & Nobody came? / Life would ring the bells of Ecstasy and Forever be Itself again.

Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.

What if they gave a war and nobody came?

Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.

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

I couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.