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

I listen to music a great deal. In a way, it's trying to express things that can't be expressed in words. That's something that interests me, too. Even though I use words to express myself, I am trying to, it seems to me, get beyond that.

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

Just when I thought there wasn't room enough for another thought in my head, I had this great idea—

I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.

The winter does what it can for its children.

The evening light was like honey in the trees When you left me and walked to the end of the street Where the sunset abruptly ended. The wedding-cake drawbridge lowered itself To the fragile forget-me-not flower. You climbed aboard. Burnt horizons suddenly paved with golden stones, Dreams I had, including suicide, Puff out the hot-air balloon now. It is bursting, it is about to burst