My day is done, and I am like a boat drawn on the beach, listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening.

Not yesterday I learned to know,The love of bare November days,Before the coming of the snow.

My day is done, and I am like a boat drawn on the beach, listening to the dance-music of the tide in the evening.

I am troubled, immeasurably by your eyes. I am struck by the feather of your soft reply. The sound of glass speaks quick, disdain and conceals what your eyes fight to explain.

If my poetry aims to achieve anything, it's to deliver people from the limited ways in which they see and feel.

Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything; it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through any one that suits you.