There's in my mind a... turbulent moon-ridden girl or old woman, or both, dressed in opals and rags, feathers and torn taffeta, who knows strange songs but she is not kind.

I'm not very good at praying, but what I experience when I'm writing a poem is close to prayer.

In the dark I rest, unready for the light which dawns day after day, eager to be shared. Black silk, shelter me. I need more of the night before I open eyes and heart to illumination. I must still grow in the dark like a root not ready, not ready at all.

Marvelous Truth, confront us at every turn, in every guise.

It is fatal to one's artistic life to talk about something that is in process.

Wear scarlet! Tear the green lemons off the tree! I don't want to forget who I am, what has burned in me, and hang limp and clean, an empty dress -

There is no savor more sweet, more salt than to be glad to be what, woman, and who, myself, I am.