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.

The breath that sharpens life is life itself.

Deprivation is for me what daffodils were for Wordsworth.

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

All the unhurried day / Your mind lay open like a drawer of knives.

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

Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, and don't have any kids yourself.