Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision

Somewhere someone is traveling furiously toward you, At incredible speed, traveling day and night, Through blizzards and desert heat, across torrents, through narrow passes. But will he know where to find you, Recognize you when he sees you, Give you the thing he has for you?

The winter does what it can for its children.

Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.

Poetry comes to me out of thin air or out of my unconscious mind. It's sort of the way dreams come to us and the way that we get knowledge from them, through television, old movies, which I watch a lot of. Lines of dialogue suddenly seem to be part of a poem.

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

Will occur as time grows more open about it.