My Age Fallen Away Like White Swaddling

I Think We Got Much Better Poetry When It Was All Regarded As Sinful Or Subversive, And You Had To Hide It Under The Cushion When Somebody Came In.

The Way The Moon Dashes Through Clouds That Blow Loosely As Cannon-smoke... Is A Reminder Of The Strength And Pain Of Being Young; That It Can't Come Again, But Is For Others Undiminished Somewhere.

Dear, I Can't Write, It's All A Fantasy: A Kind Of Circling Obsession.

I Don't Think I Write Well - Just Better Than Anyone Else.

Boys Dream Of Native Girls Who Bring Breadfruit, Whatever They Are.