I died in my boots like a pioneer With the whole wide sky above me.

American Muse, whose strong and diverse heart So many men have tried to understand But only made it smaller with their art, Because you are as various as your land.

I died in my boots like a pioneer With the whole wide sky above me.

A phrase may come to me as I am walking, and, once I write it down in my journal, the rest of the poem will unravel from that catalyst.

Most of the time I'm not really attracted to writing that's focused on filling and fighting it out within a well-defined container. I like work that gets out in the world and lets the world shape the poem.

Money is sullen And wisdom is sly, But youth is the pollen That blows through the sky And does not ask why.

The art finds kingdoms in a foot of ground.