I want to be a saint, a real saint while I am young, for there is so much work to do.

I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.

I didn't know the names of the flowers - now my garden is gone.

To gain your own voice, forget about having it heard. Become a saint of your own province and your own consciousness.

Who’ll come lie down in the dark with me Belly to belly and knee to knee Who’ll look into my hooded eye Who’ll lie down under my darkened thigh?

A poem is like a radio that can broadcast continuously for thousands of years.

Man’s usurpation over nature is an egotism that will destroy human as well as whale kingdoms. … Academies should return to wisdom study in tree groves rather than robot study in plastic cells