All Poetry Comes From Repetition.

This Rose Became A Bandanna, Which Became A House, Which Became Infused With All Passion, Which Became A Hideaway, Which Became Yes I Would Like To Have Dinner, Which Became Hands, Which Became Lands, Shores, Beaches, Natives On The Stones, Staring And Wild Beasts In The Trees, Chasing The Hats Of Lost Hunters, And All This Deserves A Tone.

I Got Married, Other People Went Off. We Had Sort Of Another Public-we Were Our Entire Readership For Many Years, And We Were Very Excited By Each Other.

It Seems Everything Is So Full Of Possibilities One Can Hardly Take It All In.

If You Want To Know How Much I Love And Care For You, Count The Waves.

One Day The Nouns Were Clustered In The Street. An Adjective Walked By, With Her Dark Beauty. The Nouns Were Struck, Moved, Changed. The Next Day A Verb Drove Up, And Created The Sentence.