Rest is not a word of free people. Rest is a monarchical word.

Poetry is a theorem of a yellow-silk handkerchief knotted with riddles, sealed in a balloon tied to the tail of a kite flying in a white wind against a blue sky in spring.

Arithmetic is where numbers fly like pigeons in and out of your head.

Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.

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

Freedom is baffling: men having it often know not they have it till it is gone and they no longer have it.

And even now she beats her head against the bars in the same old way and wonders if there is a bigger place the railroads run to from Chicago where maybe there is romance and big things and real dreams that never go smash.