That day she put our heads together, Fate had her imagination about her, Your head so much concerned with outer, Mine with inner, weather.

A poem may be worked over once it is in being, but may not be worried into being.

I cut my own hair. I got sick of barbers because they talk too much. And too much of their talk was about my hair coming out.

Have I not walked without an upward look Of caution under stars that very well Might not have missed me when they shot and fell? It was a risk I had to take-and took.

No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader. No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader.

I'm not a teacher, but an awakener.

I'm always saying something that's just the edge of something more.