Each moment is a place you've never been.

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth. There is no happiness like mine. I have been eating poetry.

And Robert Lowell, of course - in his poems, we're not located in his actual life. We're located more in the externals, in the journalistic facts of his life.

These wrinkles are nothing These gray hairs are nothing, This stomach which sags with old food, these bruised and swollen ankles, my darkening brain, they are nothing. I am the same boy my mother used to kiss.

Once you start describing nothingness, you end up with somethingness.

And at least in poetry you should feel free to lie. That is, not to lie, but to imagine what you want, to follow the direction of the poem.

Each moment is a place you've never been.