The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...

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.

Silly girls your heads full of boys

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

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

To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.

Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!