The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes

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.

Its a bit mad. Too bad, I mean, that getting to know each just for a fleeting second Must be replaced by unperfect knowledge of the featureless whole Like some pocket history of the world, so general As to constitute a sob or wail

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

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

Not until it starts to stink does the inevitable happen.

I lost my ridiculous accent without acquiring another