The world is beautiful but not sayable. That's why we need art.

Words make love on the page like flies in the summer heat and the poet is only the bemused spectator.

Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse while all others were making ships.

Silence is the only language god speaks.

A 'truth' detached and purified of pleasures of ordinary life is not worth a damn in my view. Every grand theory and noble sentiment ought to be first tested in the kitchen-and then in bed, of course.

Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket.

Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.