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

I am not concerned with truth, nor with conventional notions of what is beautiful.

Sometimes he did not know if he slept or just thought about sleep.

It hardly seems worthwhile to point out the shortsightedness of those practitioners who would have us believe that the form of the poem is merely its shape.

I would say that American poetry has always been a poetry of personal testimony.

I believe that all poetry is formal in that it exists within limits, limits that are either inherited by tradition or limits that language itself imposes.

Usually a life turned into a poem is misrepresented.