Poetry is the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

Enough small empty boxes thrown into a big empty box fill it full.

Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts.

Our lives are like a candle in the wind.

Valor is a gift. Those having it never know for sure whether they have it until the test comes.

Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.

Pile the bodies high at Austerlitz and Waterloo. Shovel them under and let me work- I am the grass; I cover all. And pile them high at Gettysburg. And pile them high at Ypres and Verdun. Shovel them under and let me work. Two years, ten years,and passengers ask the conductor- What place is this? Where are we now? I am the grass. Let me work.