The sea speaks a language polite people never repeat. It is a colossal scavenger slang and has no respect.

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.

Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.

Time is the coin of life. Only you can determine how it will be spent.

I couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.

I wrote poems in my corner of the Brooks Street station. I sent them to two editors who rejected them right off. I read those letters of rejection years later and I agreed with those editors.

When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.