Poetry is the dark side of the moon.

It’s up there, and you can see the front of it. But what it is isn’t what you’re looking at. It’s behind what you’re looking at.

How many years have slipped through our hands?
At least as many as the constellations we still can identify.
The quarter moon, like a light skiff,
 floats out of the mist-remnants
Of last night’s hard rain.
It, too, will slip through our fingers
 with no ripple, without us in it.

The ache for anything is a thick dust in the heart.

It's linkage I'm talking about, and harmonies and structures, And all the various things that lock our wrists to the past.

Our dreams are luminous, a cast fire upon the world. Morning arrives and that's it. Sunlight darkens the earth.

All forms of landscape are autobiographical.