I worked probably 25 years by myself, just writing and working, not trying to publish much, not giving readings.

People want poetry. They need poetry. They get it. They don't want fancy work.

You can have the other words-chance, luck, coincidence, serendipity. I'll take grace. I don't know what it is exactly, but I'll take it.

I feel the terror of idleness, like a red thirst. Death isn't just an idea.

For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.

Love yourself. Then forget it. Then, love the world.

On the beach, at dawn: Four small stones clearly Hugging each other. How many kinds of love Might there be in the world, And how many formations might they make And who am I ever To imagine I could know Such a marvelous business? When the sun broke It poured willingly its light Over the stones That did not move, not at all, Just as, to its always generous term, It shed its light on me, My own body that loves, Equally, to hug another body.