may I be I is the only prayer--not may I be great or good or beautiful or wise or strong.

i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses

since feeling is first who pays any attention to the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you; wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world my blood approves, and kisses are a far better fate than wisdom lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry --the best gesture of my brain is less than your eyelids' flutter which says we are for eachother: then laugh, leaning back in my arms for life's not a paragraph And death i think is no parenthesis

O sweet spontaneous earth

It is with roses and locomotives (not to mention acrobats Spring electricity Coney Island the 4th of July the eyes of mice and Niagara Falls) that my poems are competing.

Because you aren't afraid to kiss the dirt (and consequently dare to climb the sky)

So far as I am concerned, poetry and every other art was, is, and forever will be strictly and distinctly a question of individuality.