And so we turn the page over. To think of starting. This is all there is.

Poetry is mostly hunches.

A yak is a prehistoric cabbage; of that, we can be sure.

Silly girls your heads full of boys

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

Its a bit mad. Too bad, I mean, that getting to know each just for a fleeting second Must be replaced by unperfect knowledge of the featureless whole Like some pocket history of the world, so general As to constitute a sob or wail

I write with experiences in mind, but I don't write about them, I write out of them.