Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.

I keep feeling that there isn't one poem being written by any one of us - or a book or anything like that. The whole life of us writers, the whole product I guess I mean, is the one long poem - a community effort if you will. It's all the same poem. It doesn't belong to any one writer - it's God's poem perhaps. Or God's people's poem.

They [daisies] are my favorite flower. There is something innocent and vulnerable about them as if they thanked you for admiring them.

I’m lost. And it’s my own fault. It’s about time I figured out that I can’t ask people to keep me found.

Sometimes I fly like an eagle but with the wings of a wren

I like you; your eyes are full of language." [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]

Poetry to me is prayer.