A yak is a prehistoric cabbage; of that, we can be sure.

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

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.

I'm heading for a clean-named place like Wisconsin, and mad as a jack-o'-lantern, will get there without help and nosy proclivities.

I feel that poetry is going on all the time inside, an underground stream.

Silly girls your heads full of boys

... the first step of the terrible journey toward feeling somebody should act, that ends in utter confusion and hopelessness, east of the sun and west of the moon.