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

To those who had ordered them to death, one of them said: “We die because the people are asleep and you will die because the people will awaken.”

Revolt and terror pay a price. Order and law have a cost.

Love your neighbor as yourself but don't take down your fence.

Shame is the feeling you have when you agree with the woman who loves you that you are the man she thinks you are.

Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.

Often I look back and see that I had been many kinds of a fool-and that I had been happy in being this or that kind of fool.