I Didn't Choose Poetry: Poetry Chose Me.

My Mother, Who Hates Thunderstorms, Holds Up Each Summer Day And Shakes It Out Suspiciously, Lest Swarms Of Grape-dark Clouds Are Lurking There.

My Age Fallen Away Like White Swaddling Floats In The Middle Distance, Becomes An Inhabited Cloud.

They Say Eyes Clear With Age.

If We Seriously Contemplate Life It Appears An Agony Too Great To Be Supported, But For The Most Part Our Minds Gloss Such Things Over & Until The Ice Finally Lets Us Through We Skate About Merrily Enough. Most People, I'm Convinced, Don't Think About Life At All. They Grab What They Think They Want And The Subsequent Consequences Keep Them Busy In An Endless Chain Till They're Carried Out Feet First.

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.