A poet needs to keep his wilderness alive inside him.

Rhythm to me is essentially what Hopkins called the taste of self. I taste myself as rhythm.

When they shall paint our sockets gray And light us like a stinking fuse, Remember that we once could say, Yesterday we had a world to lose.

What makes the engine go? Desire, desire, desire.

The poem in the head is always perfect. Resistance begins when you try to convert it into language.

I dance/for the joy of surviving, at the edge of the road.

The unconscious creates, the ego edits.