Death: the anaesthetic from which none come round.

Now, helpless in the hollow of An unarmorial age, a trough Of smoke in slow suspended skeins Above their scrap of history, Only an attitude remains: Time has transfigured them into Untruth. The stone finality They hardly meant has come to be Their final blazon, and to prove Our almost-instinct almost true: What will survive of us is love.

Poetry should begin with emotion in the poet, and end with the same emotion in the reader. The poem is simply the instrument of transferance.

Depression hangs over me as if I were Iceland.

Everyone should be forcibly transplanted to another continent from their family at the age of three.

I'd like to think...that people in pubs would talk about my poems

And the case of butterflies so rich it looks As if all summer settled there and died.