Looking at the sky last night and the moon in the first fresh dark, just a few stars, bright with their cold flares, I had a little crumpled thought, 'Oh well, the moon. It's just another place like California.' One's imagination drags its feet as we are inexorably hauled into the future.

It is always pleasant to learn that someone takes an interest in a work which one enjoyed writing

It seems to me that readers sometimes make the genesis of a poem more mysterious than it is (by that I perhaps mean, think of it as something outside their own experience)

What are the questions you wish to ask?

I wish i could press snowflakes in a book like flowers.

The aim of the poet, or other artist, is first to make something; and it's impossible to make something out of words and not communicate

I do not usually revise much, though I often cut, particularly the end or toward the end of a poem