I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.
I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.
If you need a certain vitality you can only supply it yourself, or there comes a point, anyway, when no one's actions but your own seem dramatically convincing and justifiable in the plot that the number of your days concocts.
The first year was like icing. Then the cake started to show through.
Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.