Therefore bivouac we On this great, blond highway, unimpeded by Veiled scruples, worn conundrums. Morning is Impermanent. Grab sex things, swing up Over the horizon like a boy On a fishing expedition.

The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes

Poetry is mostly hunches.

It never seems to occur to anyone that each reader is different, and that even those who might be said to resemble each other will each bring an individual set of experiences and references to their reading, and interpret and misinterpret it according to these.

In the increasingly convincing darkness The words become palpable, like a fruit That is too beautiful to eat.

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night.

Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.