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

The fog comes on little cat feet.

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

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.

By night the skyscraper looms in the smoke and the stars and has a soul.

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

Who am I, where have I been, and where am I going?