The Damage Of Teaching: The Constant Contact

I Can Hear, Underground, That Sucking And Sobbing, In My Veins, In My Bones I Feel It,- The Small Water Seeping Upward, The Tight Grains Parting At Last. When Sprouts Break Out, Slippery As Fish, I Quail, Lean To Beginnings, Sheath-wet.

You Must Believe A Poem Is A Holy Thing, A Good Poem, That Is.

Nothing Would Give Up Life: Even The Dirt Keeps Breathing A Small Breath.

Fear Was My Father, Father Fear. His Look Drained The Stones.

In A Dark Time, The Mind Begins To See.