Something unpronounceable followed by a long silence points out my life is becoming a landscape.

Yes, the mistrust of poetry has a long history, for a variety of reasons, but they all come down to sentiment and invention over fact and truth. Figurative language is suspicious.

If you have any idea for a poem, an exact grid of intent, you are on the wrong path, a dead-end alley, at the top of a cliff you haven't even climbed. This is a lesson that can only be learned by trial and error.

My happiness is marred only by my failure to attain it.

The industrial world destroys nature not because it doesn’t love it but because it is not afraid of it.

Although all poets aspire to be birds, no bird aspires to be a poet.

People, the people we really love, where did they come from? What did we do to deserve them?