And I never believed that the multitude / of dreams and many words were vain.
I don't mind suffering as long as it's really about something. I don't mind great luck, if it's about something. If it's the hollow stuff, then there's no gift, one way or the other.
In writing poetry, all of one's attention is focused on some inner voice.
Maybe being winged means being wounded by infinity.
I am that last, that final thing, the body in a white sheet listening.
Memory is sweet. Even when it’s painful, memory is sweet.