The poetic impulse is distinct from ideas about things or feelings about things, though it may use these. It's more like a desire to separate a piece of one's experience & set it up on its own, an isolated object never to trouble you again, at least not for a bit. In the absence of this impulse nothing stirs.

I have no enemies. But my friends don't like me.

Death: the anaesthetic from which none come round.

I am not sure, once a poet has found out what has been written already, and how it was written - once, in short, he has learnt his trade - that he should bother with literature at all. Poetry is not like surgery, a technique that can be copied. Every operation the poet performs is unique, and need never be done again.

Any memory for the most part depending on chance.

Something, like nothing, happens anywhere.

Sex means nothing--just the moment of ecstasy, that flares and dies in minutes.