Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night, Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents, through narrow passes. But will he know where to find you, Recognize you when he sees you, Give you the thing he has for you?

There is the view that poetry should improve your life. I think people confuse it with the Salvation Army.

Part of the strength of Pollock and Rothko's art, in fact, is this doubt as to whether art may be there at all.

Will occur as time grows more open about it.

I don't find any direct statements in life. My poetry imitates or reproduces the way knowledge or awareness come to me, which is by fits and starts and by indirection. I don't think poetry arranged in neat patterns would reflect that situation. My poetry is disjunct, but then so is life.

... the first step of the terrible journey toward feeling somebody should act, that ends in utter confusion and hopelessness, east of the sun and west of the moon.

I write with experiences in mind, but I don't write about them, I write out of them.