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.

Lips half-willing in a doorway. Lips half-singing at a window. Eyes half-dreaming in the walls. Feet half-dancing in a kitchen. Even the clocks half-yawn the hours And the farmers make half-answers.

Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.

I doubt if you can have a truly wild party without liquor.

Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.

Life is like an onion. You peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep.

Back of every mistaken venture and defeat is the laughter of wisdom, if you listen.