My Mother Never Forgave My Father

Deftly They Opened The Brain Of A Child, And It Was Full Of Flying Dreams.

When They Shall Paint Our Sockets Gray And Light Us Like A Stinking Fuse, Remember That We Once Could Say, Yesterday We Had A World To Lose.

I Dropped My Hoe And Ran Into The House And Started To Write This Poem, 'end Of Summer.’ It Began As A Celebration Of Wild Geese. Eventually The Geese Flew Out Of The Poem, But I Like To Think They Left Behind The Sound Of Their Beating Wings.

A Longing For The Dance Stirs In The Buried Life.

A Poet Needs To Keep His Wilderness Alive Inside Him.