How many people came and stayed a certain time, Uttered light or dark speech that became part of you Like light behind windblown fog and sand Filtered and influenced by it, until no part Remains that is surely you.

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

Until, accustomed to disappointments, you can let yourself rule and be ruled by these strings or emanations that connect everything together, you haven't fully exorcised the demon of doubt that sets you in motion like a rocking horse that cannot stop rocking.

I don't want to read what is going to slide down easily; there has to be some crunch, a certain amount of resilience.

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

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

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.