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

Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.

The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.

There is a warning love sends and the cost of it is never written till long afterward.

It was here we turned the coffee cups upside down. And your eyes and the moon swept the valley.

Now is the time. It is never too late to start something.

If [America] forgets where she came from, if the people lose sight of what brought them along, if she listens to the deniers and mockers, then will begin the rot and dissolution.