Because Language Is The Carrier Of Ideas,

I'll Lie Here And Learn How, Over Their Ground, Trees Make A Long Shadow And A Light Sound.

I Don't Like Quintessential Certitude.

The Poem Is Always The Last Resort. In It The Poet Makes A World In Little, And Finds Peace, Even Though, Under Complete Focused Emotion, The Evocation Be Far More Bitter Than Reality, Or Far More Lovely.

The Measured Blood Beats Out The Year's Delay.

A Thousand Kindnesses Do Not Make Up For A Thousand Blows.