The first year was like icing. Then the cake started to show through.
Reading is a pleasure, but to finish reading, to come to the blank space at the end, is also a pleasure.
How many people came and stayed a certain time, Uttered light or dark speech that became part of you Like light behind windblown fog and sand Filtered and influenced by it, until no part Remains that is surely you.
I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.
Each servant stamps the reader with a look.
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.