After the sunset on the prairie, there are only the stars

Give me hunger, pain and want, Shut me out with shame and failure From your doors of gold and fame, Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger! But leave me a little love.

The moon is a friend for the lonesome to talk to.

There is an eagle in me that wants to soar.

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

Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.

One of the greatest necessities in America is to discover creative solitude.