Will occur as time grows more open about it.

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.

I write with experiences in mind, but I don't write about them, I write out of them.

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

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

The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...

The first year was like icing. Then the cake started to show through.