I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

When I fell out of the light, I entered The stomach of indifference, the wordless cupboard.

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.

I think my poems immediately come out of the sensuous and emotional experiences I have, but I must say I cannot sympathise with these cries from the heart that are informed by nothing except a needle or a knife, or whatever it is.

I have the one person I could ever love in this world. Now I must work to be a person worthy of that.

When they asked me what I wanted to be I said I didn't know.

Do we always grind through the present, doomed to throw a gold haze of fond retrospect over the past?