The summer has seized you, as when, last month in Amalfi, I saw lemons as large as your desk-side globe-that miniature map of the world-and I could mention, too, the market stalls of mushrooms and garlic bugs all engorged. Or I even think of the orchard next door, where the berries are done and the apples are beginning to swell. And once, with our first backyard,I remember I planted an acre of yellow beans we couldn't eat.

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.