Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
I often wonder if I am suffering from some mental dysfunction because of how weird and baffling my poetry seems to so many people and sometimes to me too.
The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...
The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes
Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.
Much that is beautiful must be discarded So that we may resemble a taller Impression of ourselves.