I think that in the process of writing, all kinds of unexpected things happen that shift the poet away from his plan and that these accidents are really what we mean when we talk about poetry.

How many people came and stayed a certain time, Uttered light or dark speech that became part of you Like light behind windblown fog and sand Filtered and influenced by it, until no part Remains that is surely you.

I think that in the process of writing, all kinds of unexpected things happen that shift the poet away from his plan and that these accidents are really what we mean when we talk about poetry.

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

And so we turn the page over. To think of starting. This is all there is.

Things can harden meaningfully in the moment of indecision

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