There are dreams stronger than death. Men and women die holding these dreams.

Here is the difference between Dante, Milton, and me. They wrote about hell and never saw the place. I wrote about Chicago after looking the town over for years and years.

Lips half-willing in a doorway. Lips half-singing at a window. Eyes half-dreaming in the walls. Feet half-dancing in a kitchen. Even the clocks half-yawn the hours And the farmers make half-answers.

Poetry is a type-font design for an alphabet of fun, hate, love, death.

Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.

When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.

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