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.

Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.

Most reckless things are beautiful in some way, and recklessness is what makes experimental art beautiful, just as religions are beautiful because of the strong possibilities that they are founded on nothing.

The soul establishes itself. But how far can it swim out through the eyes And still return safely to its nest?

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

Reading is a pleasure, but to finish reading, to come to the blank space at the end, is also a pleasure.

I lost my ridiculous accent without acquiring another