Theatre is poetry that rises from the book and becomes human enough to talk and shout, weep and despair

Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.

Hour of Stars (1920) The round silence of night, one note on the stave of the infinite. Ripe with lost poems, I step naked into the street. The blackness riddled by the singing of crickets: sound, that dead will-o'-the-wisp, that musical light perceived by the spirit. A thousand butterfly skeletons sleep within my walls. A wild crowd of young breezes over the river.

My head is full of fire and grief and my tongue runs wild, pierced with shards of glass.

As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die.

To see you naked is to recall the Earth.

New York is something awful, something monstrous. I like to walk the streets, lost, but I recognize that New York is the world's greatest lie. New York is Senegal with machines.