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Feel oddly barren. My sickness is when words draw in their horns and the physical world refuses to be ordered, recreated, arranged and selected. I am ...more

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August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.

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She looked terrible, but very wise.

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Wind warns November’s done with. The blown leaves make bat-shapes, Web-winged and furious.

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Writing, then, was a substitute for myself: if you don't love me, love my writing & love me for my writing. It is also much more: a way of ordering an...more

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Some things are hard to write about. After something happens to you, you go to write it down, and either you over dramatize it, or underplay it, exagg...more

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So much working, reading, thinking, living to do! A lifetime is not long enough.