It's very difficult to look at the Worldand into your heart at the same time.In between, a life has passed.

Wherever we go we do harm, forgivingourselves as wheels do cement for wearingeach other out. We set this houseon fire, forgetting that we live within.(from "To a Meadowlark," for M.L. Smoker)

A poet must discover that it’s his own story that is true, even if the truth is small indeed.

Christ rose so long ago but the airhe rose through hasn't forgottenthe slight red contrail from the wounds.

It's up to poets to revive the gods.

In fact he was as lovesick as a high schooler of an especially sensitive sort who wonders if he dare share a poem with his beloved or whether she will laugh at him. He does read her the poem and her feminine capacity for romanticism for a moment approaches his own and they are suffused in a love trance, a state that so ineluctably peels back the senses making them fresh again whatever ages the lovers might be.