In a dream you are never eighty.

As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.

the marriage twists, holds firm, a sailor's knot.

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

Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.

She suffers according to the digits of my hate. I hear the filaments of alabaster. I would lie down with them and lift my madness off like a wig. I would lie outside in a room of wool and let the snow cover me. Paris white or flake white or argentine, all in the washbasin of my mouth, calling “Oh.” I am empty. I am witless. Death is here. There is no other settlement.