In the room the women come and go talking of Michelangelo.

Words strain, Crack and sometimes break, under the burden, Under the tension, slip, slide, perish, Decay with imprecision, will not stay in place, Will not stay still.

In spite of all the dishonour, the broken standards, the broken lives, The broken faith in one place or another, There was something left that was more than the tales Of old men on winter evenings.

There is no feeling, except the extremes of fear and grief, that does not find relief in music.

My life is light, waiting for the death wind, Like a feather on the back of my hand.

Poets in our civilization, as it exists at present, must be difficult...The poet must become more and more comprehensive, more allusive, more indirect, in order to force, to dislocate if necessary, language into its meaning.

The old should be explorers, be curious, risk transgression, explore oldness itself.