End with an image and don't explain.

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

The poem comes in the form of a blessing, like rapture breaking on the mind.

A poet needs to keep his wilderness alive inside him. To remain a poet after forty requires an awareness of your darkest Africa, that part of yourself that will never be tamed.

...few young poets [are] testing their poems against the ear. They're writing for the page, and the page, let me tell you, is a cold bed.

My mother never forgave my father

A longing for the dance stirs in the buried life.