I would say everything should be able to come into a poem, but I can't put toothbrushes into a poem, I really can't!

It is so much safer not to feel, not to let the world touch me.

Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.

Perhaps, perhaps this would be the one to pull me out of my plunge.

My flesh winced, in cowardice, from such a death.

As a poet I would say everything should be able to come into a poem but I can't put toothbrushes in a poem. I really can't.

My life is a discipline, a prison: I live for my own work, without which I am nothing.