Dark is a way and light is a place, Heaven that never was Nor will be ever is always true "Poem on His Birthday

The moment of a miracle is unending lightning.

Rage, rage against the dying light

And now, gentlemen, like your manners, I must leave you.

The best craftsmanship always leaves holes and gaps... so that something that is not in the poem can creep, crawl, flash or thunder in.

The land of my fathers. My fathers can have it.

What I like to do is treat words as a craftsman does his wood or stone or what-have-you, to hew, carve, mold, coil, polish, and plane them into patterns, sequences, sculptures, fugues of sound expressing some lyrical impulse, some spiritual doubt or conviction, some dimly realized truth I must try to reach and realize.