Outside the open window The morning air is all awash with angels.
There is a poignancy in all things clear, In the stare of the deer, in the ring of a hammer in the morning. Seeing a bucket of perfectly lucid water We fall to imagining prodigious honesties.
Composition for me is, externally at least, scarcely distinguishable from catatonia.
What's lightly hid is deepest understood.
Step off assuredly into the blank of your mind. Something will come to you.
I would feel dead if I didn't have the ability periodically to put my world in order with a poem. I think to be inarticulate is a great suffering, and is especially so to anyone who has a certain knack for poetry.