Therefore bivouac we On this great, blond highway, unimpeded by Veiled scruples, worn conundrums. Morning is Impermanent. Grab sex things, swing up Over the horizon like a boy On a fishing expedition.

Each servant stamps the reader with a look.

I always thought that writing poetry was in itself a political act.

I lost my ridiculous accent without acquiring another

Just when I thought there wasn't room enough for another thought in my head, I had this great idea—

Once you've lived in France, you don't want to live anywhere else, including France.

I don't find any direct statements in life. My poetry imitates or reproduces the way knowledge or awareness come to me, which is by fits and starts and by indirection. I don't think poetry arranged in neat patterns would reflect that situation. My poetry is disjunct, but then so is life.