The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.

I'm sure that writing isn't a craft, that is, something for which you learn the skills and go on turning out. It must come from some deep impulse, deep inspiration. That can't be taught, it can't be what you use in teaching.

Poetry is not the record of an event: it is an event.

The Lord survives the rainbow of His will.

September twenty-second, Sir, the bough cracks with unpicked apples, and at dawn the small-mouth bass breaks water, gorged with spawn.

Everywhere, giant finned cars nose forward like fish; a savage servility slides by on grease.

Talking about the past is like a cat's trying to explain climbing down a ladder.