Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it.

Corn wind in the fall, come off the black lands, come off the whisper of the silk hangers, the lap of the flat spear leaves.

There is an eagle in me that wants to soar, and there is a hippopotamus in me that wants to wallow in the mud.

The impact of television on our culture is just indescribable.

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

I've written some poetry I don't understand myself.

Hope is an echo, hope ties itself yonder, yonder.