To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
I feel that poetry is going on all the time inside, an underground stream.
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.
The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes
I lost my ridiculous accent without acquiring another
until only infinity remained of beauty