This rose became a bandanna, which became a house, which became infused with all passion, which became a hideaway, which became yes I would like to have dinner, which became hands, which became lands, shores, beaches, natives on the stones, staring and wild beasts in the trees, chasing the hats of lost hunters, and all this deserves a tone.

I never thought of myself as a New York poet or as an American poet.

It seems everything is so full of possibilities one can hardly take it all in.

If you want to know how much I love and care for you, count the waves.

Summer in the trees! “It is time to strangle several bad poets.

Maybe there are three or four really good poets in a generation.

When you finish a poem, it clicks shut like the top of a jewel box, but prose is endless. I haven't experienced an awful lot of clicking shut!