Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fire blazes. No one ever thanked him."

. . . voyage through death
to life upon these shores.

[My poetry is] a way of coming to grips with reality . . . a way of discovery and definition. It is a way of solving for the unknowns.

". . . your presence was shore where I rested
released from the hoodoo of that dance, where I spoke
with my true voice again."

"We must not be frightened nor cajoled
into accepting evil as deliverance from evil.
We must go on struggling to be human,
though monsters of abstractions
police and threaten us."