The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not. The trade winds blow me, and I do not know where the land is; the waves fold over each other; they are in love with themselves; sleeping in their own skin; and I float over them and I do not know about tomorrow.

The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

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

Let the light be called Day so that men may grow corn or take busses.

But my future is a secret. / It is as shy as a mole.

The body is a damn hard thing to kill.

Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.