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

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

Poetry is mostly hunches.

It never seems to occur to anyone that each reader is different, and that even those who might be said to resemble each other will each bring an individual set of experiences and references to their reading, and interpret and misinterpret it according to these.

Most reckless things are beautiful in some way, and recklessness is what makes experimental art beautiful, just as religions are beautiful because of the strong possibilities that they are founded on nothing.

Reading is a pleasure, but to finish reading, to come to the blank space at the end, is also a pleasure.

I think that in the process of writing, all kinds of unexpected things happen that shift the poet away from his plan and that these accidents are really what we mean when we talk about poetry.