Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, 'Oh!' and another, 'How?'

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

Be careful with your words, once they are said, they can only be forgiven, not forgotten.

Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.

Poetry is a diary kept by a sea creature who lives on land and wishes he could fly.

Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path, matched up with foam-flanked horses, bloody knuckles, and bones, on the hard ways to the stars.

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.