Wherever that man went, he went gratefully.

Strange, it is a huge nothing that we fear.

Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun. ~from the poem "Digging

Yet there are times when a deeper need enters, when we want the poem to be not only pleasurably right but compellingly wise, not only a surprising variation played upon the world, but a re-tuning of the world itself.

All I know is a door into the dark

Nowadays, what an award gives is a sense of solidarity with the poetry guild, as it were: sustenance coming from the assent of your peers on the judging panel.

Don't be surprised if I demur, for, be advised my passport's green.