Walks work for me. I enter some arena that is neither conscious or unconscious.

...there was a new voice which you slowly recognized as your own, that kept you company as you strode deeper and deeper into the world, determined to do the only thing you could do -- determined to save the only life you could save.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination.

The poet must not only write the poem but must scrutinize the world intensely, or anyway that part of the world he or she has taken for subject. If the poem is thin, it is likely so not because the poet does not know enough words, but because he or she has not stood long enough among the flowers--has not seen them in any fresh, exciting, and valid way.

He is exactly the poem I wanted to write.

The challenge is to keep up with all the new poets at the same time I love the old ones.

We need beauty because it makes us ache to be worthy of it.