Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.

Don’t worry if they say you’re crazy. They said that about me and yet I was saner than all of them. I knew. No matter. You know. Insane or sane, you know. It’s a good thing to know - no matter what they call it.

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

I think of myself as writing for one person, that one perfect reader who understands and loves.

It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.

The windows, the starving windows that drive the trees like nails into my heart.

The soul was not cured, it was as full as a clothes closet of dresses that did not fit.