At one point I took on a new job, and I just didn't have time to do anything but work.

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

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

I'm not asking a poem to carry a lot of rocks in its pockets. Just being an ordinary observer and liver and feeler and letting the experience get through you onto the notebook with the pen, through the arm, out of the body, onto the page, without distortion.

I think that my work is easy to understand because I am not a thinker, I am not a... How can I put it? I write the way I perceive, I guess.

Maybe in order to understand sex fully/one has to risk being destroyed by it.

I was a late bloomer. But anyone who blooms at all, ever, is very lucky.