And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...

Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.

And if I tried to give you something else, something outside myself, you would not know that the worst of anyone can be, finally, an accident of hope

It was as if a morning-glory had bloomed in her throat, and all that blue and small pollen ate into my heart, violent and religious

I burn the way money burns.

All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.

The beautiful feeling after writing a poem is on the whole better even than after sex, and that's saying a lot.