Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts.

Look out how you use proud words. When you let proud words go, it is not easy to call them back. They wear long boots, hard boots; they walk off proud; they can't hear you calling. Look out how you use proud words.

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.

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

I couldn't see myself filling some definite niche in what is called a career. This was all misty.

Poetry is the establishment of a metaphorical link between white butterfly-wings and the scraps of torn-up love-letters.

Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.