The reality of a poem is a very ghostly one. It suggests, it suggests, it suggests again.
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.
Even this late it happens: the coming of love, the coming of light.
It's very hard to write humor.
Sometimes he did not know if he slept or just thought about sleep.
The future is always beginning now.