That's the main business of the poem!-to see if you can't make up a language that sets all your selves talking at once-all of them being fair to each other.

There is a poignancy in all things clear, In the stare of the deer, in the ring of a hammer in the morning. Seeing a bucket of perfectly lucid water We fall to imagining prodigious honesties.

What is the opposite of two? A lonely me, a lonely you.

Outside the open window The morning air is all awash with angels.

Writing poetry is talking to oneself; yet it is a mode of talking to oneself in which the self disappears; and the product's something that, though it may not be for everybody, is about everybody.

I would feel dead if I didn't have the ability periodically to put my world in order with a poem. I think to be inarticulate is a great suffering, and is especially so to anyone who has a certain knack for poetry.

Whatever pains disease may bring Are but the tangy seasoning To Loves delicious fare.