over and over again I am struck by the wordiness of modern poetry, as if language had replaced experience and must be more and more extreme, intricate and in a way divorced from life itself. It seems as if what we all need is a great purification - but how will that come about?

There the door is always open into the “holy” — growth, birth, death.

A body without bones would be a limp impossible mess, so a day without steady routine would be disruptive and chaotic.

Words are my passion / And out of them and me / I would create beauty.

So this was fame at last! Nothing but a vast debt to be paid to the world in energy, blood, and time.

In a total work, the failures have their not unimportant place.

we are never done with thinking about our parents, I suppose, and come to know them better long after they are dead than we ever did when they were alive.