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

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

Once you lose someone it is never exactly the same person who comes back.

Because a poem is not written while running or while answering the phone. It's written in whatever minutes one has. Sometimes you have half an hour.

Poets are like steam valves, where the ordinary feelings of ordinary people can escape and be shown.

I think this is true for all artists. My senses are very important to me.

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