Looking, Walking, Being, I look and look. Looking's a way of being: one becomes, sometimes, a pair of eyes walking. Walking wherever looking takes one. The eyes dig and burrow into the world. They touch, fanfare, howl, madrigal, clamor. World and the past of it, not only visible present, solid and shadow that looks at one looking. And language? Rhythms of echo and interruption? That's a way of breathing. breathing to sustain looking, walking and looking, through the world, in it.

The poem has a social effect of some kind whether or not the poet wills it to have. It has a kenetic force, it sets in motion...elements in the reader that would otherwise remain stagnant.

If woman is inconstant, good, I am faithful to ebb and flow, I fall in season and now is a time of ripening.

Writing poetry is a process of discovery...you can smell the poem before you see it....Like some animal.

But for us the road unfurls itself, we don't stop walking, we know there is far to go.

I like to find what's not found at once, but lies within something of another nature, in repose, distinct.

The artist must create himself or be born again.