Even this late it happens the coming of love, the coming of light. You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves, stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows, sending up warm bouquets of air. Even this late the bones of the body shine and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.

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

For some of us, the less said about the way we do things the better.

A life is not sufficiently elevated for poetry, unless, of course, the life has been made into an art.

I tend to like poems that engage me - that is to say, which do not bore me.

To open the dictionary of the Beyond and discover what one suspected, that the only word in it is nothing.

It came to my house. It sat on my shoulders. Your shadow is yours. I told it so. I said it was yours. I have carried it with me too long. I give it back.