I wrote poems in my corner of the Brooks Street station. I sent them to two editors who rejected them right off. I read those letters of rejection years later and I agreed with those editors.

Now is the time. It is never too late to start something.

Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.

Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.

I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes, so live not in your yesterdays, no just for tomorrow, but in the here and now. Keep moving and forget the post mortems; and remember, no one can get the jump on the future.

The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.

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.