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

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

I lost my ridiculous accent without acquiring another

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

Where then shall hope and fear their objects find?

My feeling is that most political poetry is preaching to the choir, and that the people who are going to make the political changes in our lives are not the people who read poetry, unfortunately. Poetry not specifically aimed at political revolution, though, is beneficial in moving people toward that kind of action, as well as other kinds of action. A good poem makes me want to be active on as many fronts as possible.

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