I take you and pile high the memories. Death will break her claws on some I keep.

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.

I have always felt that a woman has the right to treat the subject of her age with ambiguity until, perhaps, she passes into the realm of over ninety. Then it is better she be candid with herself and with the world.

Let a joy keep you. Reach out your hands and take it when it runs by.

Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.

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.

One of the greatest necessities in America is to discover creative solitude.