And all poets love dust and mist because all the last answers. Go running back to dust and mist.

In the night the cabbages catch at the moon, the leaves drip silver, the rows of cabbages are a series of little silver waterfalls in the moon.

Alike and ever alike, we are on all continents in the need of love, food, clothing, work, speech, worship, sleep, games, dancing, fun. From tropics to arctics humanity live with these needs so alike, so inexorably alike.

Ordering a man to write a poem is like commanding a pregnant woman to give birth to a red-headed child.

Calling it off comes easy enough if you haven't told the girl you are smitten with her.

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance.

Enough small empty boxes thrown into a big empty box fill it full.