Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.
I am not at home in myself. I am my own stranger.
I cannot walk an inch / without trying to walk to God.
I wonder if the artist ever lives his life--he is so busy recreating it.
Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.
I hoard books. They are people who do not leave.