Hour By Hour, Day By Day, Life

I Like People Too Much Or Not At All.

Although, I Admit, I Desire, Occasionally, Some Backtalk From The Mute Sky, I Can't Honestly Complain: A Certain Minor Light May Still Lean Incandescent Out Of Kitchen Table Or Chair As If A Celestial Burning Took Possession Of The Most Obtuse Objects Now And Then --

I Find That In A Novel I Can Get More Of Life, Perhaps Not Such Intense Life, But Certainly More Of Life Than In Poetry.

In Spite Of Everything, I Still Have My Good Old Sense Of Humor.

I, To You, Am Lost In The Gorgeous Errors Of Flesh.