I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.
Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!
Poetry comes to me out of thin air or out of my unconscious mind. It's sort of the way dreams come to us and the way that we get knowledge from them, through television, old movies, which I watch a lot of. Lines of dialogue suddenly seem to be part of a poem.
Silly girls your heads full of boys
The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...