Today again I am hardly myself. It happens over and over.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

Look, hasn't my body already felt like the body of a flower?

My first two books are out of print and, okay, they can sleep there comfortably. It's early work, derivative work.

You may not agree, you may not care, but if you are holding this book you should know that of all the sights I love in this world — and there are plenty — very near the top of the list is this one: dogs without leashes.

Why should I not sit, every morning of my life, on the hillside, looking into the shining world?

Maybe the world, without us, is the real poem.