There are some things that can’t be conveyed— description, for instance, The sundown light on that dog hair lodge pole pine and the dead branches of spruce trees.
Criticism never starts over; yet sometimes it suffers a forgetfulness, an ill nature, an ignorance of its soundings. There’s no going back, but there is a going forward that does not fear looking back. The complaint about “theory” is that...
No, there will never be any shortage of labels; but at core, these academic designations will always remain, for me, rather bloodless. They will dance around my mind, flimsy moth-shadows; from time to time they will make cameo appearances...
Like rivers, my thoughts flow south, for no particular reason. Must be the full moon That floods the sky, and makes the night wakeful and full of remorse.
