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.

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

I feel that anything is possible in a poem.

Poems not only demand patience, they demand a kind of surrender. You must give yourself up to them. This is the real food for a poet: other poems, not meat loaf.

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

It's very hard to write humor.

Nothing is the destiny of everyone, it is our commonness made dumb.