Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart?

Can you understand? Someone, somewhere, can you understand me a little, love me a little?

August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.

Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.

How we need another soul to cling to, another body to keep us warm. To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I need this, I need someone to pour myself into.

I find myself absolutely fulfilled when I have written a poem, when I'm writing one. Having written one, then you fall away very rapidly from having been a poet to becoming a sort of poet in rest, which isn't the same thing at all. But I think the actual experience of writing a poem is a magnificent one.

Ash, ash —- You poke and stir. Flesh, bone, there is nothing there—— A cake of soap, A wedding ring, A gold filling. Herr God, Herr Lucifer Beware Beware. Out of the ash I rise with my red hair And I eat men like air.