Fear / a motor, / pumps me around and around / until I fade slowly.

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

Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.

Letters are false really - they are expressions of the way you wish you were instead of the way you are.

Thief!- how did you crawl into, crawl down alone into the death I wanted so badly and for so long.