Pity the planet, all joy gone from this sweet volcanic cone; peace to our children when they fall in small war on the heel of small war--until the end of time to police the earth, a ghost orbiting forever lost in our monotonous sublime

If youth is a defect, it is one we outgrow too soon.

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

In the end, there is no end.

Their monument sticks like a fishbone in the city's throat.

Sometimes nothing is so solid to me as writing - I suppose that's what a vocation means - at times a torment, a bad conscience, but all in all, purpose and direction.

It's the light of the oncoming train.