Maybe we can use a metaphor for it, out of dance. I think for many years I was aware of the need, in dance and in life, to breathe deeply and to take in more air than we usually take in.

She'd crack A joke sharp as a tin lid Hot from the teeth of the can-opener, And cackle her crack-corn laugh.

There is something in me maybe someday to be written; now it is folded, and folded, and folded, like a note in school.

I did not deceive him, he did not deceive me, I did not leave him, he did not leave me, I freed him, he freed me.

This creature of the poem may assemble itself into a being with its own centrifugal force.

I'm not sure that the benefit - as a writer and as a citizen - that I would get from reading at least the front page of the Times every day or every other day would outweigh the depression.

Well, one thing I'm really interested in, when I'm writing, is being accurate.