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

Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.

Poetry is mostly hunches.

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.

Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision

Once you've lived in France, you don't want to live anywhere else, including France.

I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.