Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.

Where was I going? I puzzled and wondered about it til I actually enjoyed the puzzlement and wondering.

I have always felt that a woman has the right to treat the subject of her age with ambiguity until, perhaps, she passes into the realm of over ninety. Then it is better she be candid with herself and with the world.

Hog butcher for the world, Tool maker, stacker of wheat, Player with railroads and the nation's freight handler; Stormy, husky, brawling, City of big shoulders.

Hope is an echo, hope ties itself yonder, yonder.

Sometime they'll give a war and nobody will come.

Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematics of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.