Little sleep's-head sprouting hair in the moonlight, when I come back we will go out together, we will walk out together among, the ten thousand things, each scratched too late with such knowledge, the wages of dying is love.

I will find that special person who is wrong for me in just the right way.

Perhaps poetry will be the canary in the mine-shaft warning us of what's to come.

Thats the way it is with poetry: When it is incomprehensible it seems profound, and when you understand it, it is only ridiculous.

The first step... shall be to lose the way.

Prose is walking; poetry is flying

Sometimes it is necessary To reteach a thing its loveliness