One tends to write beyond what's needed

Looking at the sky last night and the moon in the first fresh dark, just a few stars, bright with their cold flares, I had a little crumpled thought, 'Oh well, the moon. It's just another place like California.' One's imagination drags its feet as we are inexorably hauled into the future.

The aim of the poet, or other artist, is first to make something and it's impossible to make something out of words and not communicate

It is always pleasant to learn that someone takes an interest in a work which one enjoyed writing

What are the questions you wish to ask?