Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.

I cried over beautiful things, knowing no beautiful thing lasts.

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

Two bubbles found they had rainbows on their curves. They flickered out saying: "It was worth being a bubble, just to have held that rainbow thirty seconds.

I had been keeping an off eye on the advertising field, thinking I might become an idea man and a copywriter.

Come clean with a child heart Laugh as peaches in the summer wind Let rain on a house roof be a song Let the writing on your face be a smell of apple orchards on late June.

Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path, matched up with foam-flanked horses, bloody knuckles, and bones, on the hard ways to the stars.