Love grows by not giving to us. And if our passion for poetry lives on and persists, it is because poetry offers us only its bits of lint.

I don't aspire, but I would be very happy if one of my poems suddenly offered someone a shady rest stop, a breather in our interminable march under the murderous, scorching heat of the superfluous.

What I try to do is to keep emotion on a tight leash; otherwise, it can never be transubstantiated into poetry.

All that we are and all that we've ever felt, words have felt it first.

Life's essential length is only a few pages long, as succinct as a line of verse and as brief as the title of a poem.

Poetry contains love and holds it in high esteem, even though love always humiliates it by using it merely as a soothing after-shave lotion.

You are walking in a desert.You hear a bird singing.As absurd as it may seem for a bird to be pending in the desert,you are obligated to make it a tree.That's poem