I try to hold both history and wilderness in mind, that my poems may the true measure of things and stand against the unbalance and ignorance of our times.

The mercy of the West has been social revolution; the mercy of the East has been individual insight into the basic self/void.

Clouds sink down the hills Coffee is hot again. The dog Turns and turns about, stops and sleeps.

After weeks of watching the roof leak I fixed it tonight by moving a single board

I never find words right away. Poems for me always begin with images and rhythms, shapes, feelings, forms, dances in the back of my mind.

When the mind is exhausted of images, it invents its own.

Thought is just an apprehension of touch.