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

I know I can walk through the world, along the shore or under the trees, with my mind filled with things of little importance, in full self-attendance. A condition I can't really call being alive.

And now I understand something so frightening &wonderful- how the mind clings to the road it knows, rushing through crossroads, sticking like lint to the familiar.

A poet's interest in craft never fades, of course.

Today I am altogether without ambition. Where did I get such wisdom?

In my own work, I usually revise through forty or fifty drafts of a poem before I begin to feel content with it.

There is only one question: / how to love this world.