Among animals, one has a sense of humor. Humor saves a few steps, it saves years.

I never 'plan' a stanza. Words cluster like chromosomes, determining the procedure.

Conscious writing can be the death of poetry.

What is our innocence, What is our guilt? All are naked, none is safe.

Your thorns are the best part of you.

I, too, dislike it. Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers in it, after all, a place for the genuine.

One must be as clear as one's natural reticence allows one to be.