The reality of a poem is a very ghostly one. It suggests, it suggests, it suggests again.

Pain is filtered in a poem so that it becomes finally, in the end, pleasure.

We are reading the story of our lives As though we were in it As though we had written it.

And what does it matter when light enters the room where a child sleeps and the waking mother, opening her eyes, wishes more than anything to be unwakened by what she cannot name?

No voice comes from outer space, from the folds of dust and carpets of wind to tell us that this is the way it was meant to happen, that if only we knew how long the ruins would last we would never complain.

When I walk I part the air and always the air moves in to fill the spaces where my body's been.

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