I feel that the task of criticizing my poetry is best left to others (i.e. critics) and would much rather have it take place after I am dead. If at all.

You can wet the rim of a glass and run your finger around the rim and it will make a sound. This is what I feel like: this sound of glass. I feel like the word shatter. I want to be with someone.

In my dreams of this city I am always lost.

Vanity is becoming a nuisance, I can see why women give it up, eventually. But I'm not ready for that yet.

More and more I feel like a letter—deposited here, collected there. But a letter addressed to no one.

There's always something to occupy the inquiring mind.

My parents were gardeners themselves, and perforce they used environmental techniques because it was during the war, and you didn't have the new sorts of chemicals.