I feel that poetry is going on all the time inside, an underground stream.

I often wonder if I am suffering from some mental dysfunction because of how weird and baffling my poetry seems to so many people and sometimes to me too.

Much that is beautiful must be discarded So that we may resemble a taller Impression of ourselves.

And so we turn the page over. To think of starting. This is all there is.

Each servant stamps the reader with a look.

A yak is a prehistoric cabbage; of that, we can be sure.

In the increasingly convincing darkness The words become palpable, like a fruit That is too beautiful to eat.