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 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.

Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!

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

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

Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision

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?