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

A poem is an invitation to a voyage. As in life, we travel to see fresh sights.

In their effort to divorce language and experience, deconstructionist critics remind me of middle-class parents who do not allow their children to play in the street.

The stone is a mirror which works poorly. Nothing in it but dimness. Your dimness or its dimness, who's to say? In the hush your heart sounds like a black cricket.

For Emily Dickinson every philosophical idea was a potential lover. Metaphysics is the realm of eternal seduction of the spirit by ideas.

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

I slept little, read a lot, and fell in love frequently.