But with exquisite breathing you smile, with satisfaction of love, And I touch you again as you tick in the silence and settle in sleep.

My soul is now her day, my day her night, So I lie down, and so I rise.

The good poet sticks to his real loves, to see within the realm of possibility. He never tries to hold hands with God or the human race.

Poetry is innocent, not wise. It does not learn from experience, because each poetic experience is unique.

To make the child in your own image is a capital crime, for your image is not worth repeating. The child knows this and you know it. Consequently you hate each other.

But with exquisite breathing you smile, with satisfaction of love, And I touch you again as you tick in the silence and settle in sleep.

Poetry is not a way of saying things; it's a way of seeing things.