Out of this same light, out of the central mind, We make a dwelling in the evening air, In which being there together is enough.

LIGHT FROM WITHIN my friend, cancer got you damn it: you had it beat for seven years at least. how did it come back? Why all that pain. again. and you, such a fighter you fought me over and over with tears and words and promises. you fought for me with honesty and a light so bright it hurts my heart. sweet lorna. at peace now finally no more battles, just light from within a flickering candle in the dark burns with you.

The leaves hop, scraping on the ground. It is deep January. The sky is hard. The stalks are firmly rooted in ice. It is in this solitude, a syllable, Out of these gawky flitterings, Intones its single emptiness, The savagest hollow of winter-sound.

A poet looks at the world the way a man looks at a woman.

Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.

One cannot spend one's time in being modern when there are so many more important things to be.

...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.