Part of the strength of Pollock and Rothko's art, in fact, is this doubt as to whether art may be there at all.

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night.

The winter does what it can for its children.

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.

I lost my ridiculous accent without acquiring another

Part of the strength of Pollock and Rothko's art, in fact, is this doubt as to whether art may be there at all.

I don't find any direct statements in life. My poetry imitates or reproduces the way knowledge or awareness come to me, which is by fits and starts and by indirection. I don't think poetry arranged in neat patterns would reflect that situation. My poetry is disjunct, but then so is life.