Atrocity is truly emperor; All things that thrive are slaves of cruel Creation.

The scrape and snap of Keds on loose alley pebbles seems to catapult their voices high into the moist March air blue above the wires.

The breezes taste Of apple peel. The air is full Of smells to feel- Ripe fruit, old footballs, Burning brush, New books, erasers, Chalk, and such. The bee, his hive, Well-honeyed hum, And Mother cuts Chrysanthemums. Like plates washed clean With suds, the days Are polished with A morning haze.

It is not enough for a story to flow. It has to kind of trickle and glint as it crosses over the stones of the bare facts.

Students present themselves...like a succession of CDs whose shimmering surface gives no clue to their contents without the equipment to play them.

When I write, I aim in my mind not toward New York but toward a vague spot a little to the east of Kansas.

But it seems to me that once you begin a gesture it's fatal not to go through with it.