The frost makes a flower, the dew makes a star.
I need some older, wiser being to cry to. I talk to God, but the sky is empty, and Orion walks by and doesn't speak.
Poetry, I feel, is a tyrannical discipline. You've got to go so far, so fast, in such a small space, that you've got to burn away all the peripherals.
Go out and do something. It isnโt your room thatโs a prison, itโs yourself.
I have a violence in me that is hot as death-blood.
I don't see,' I said, 'how people stand being old. Your insides all dry up. When you're young you're so self-reliant. You don't even need much religion.