In the pit of red You hid from the bone-clinic whiteness But the jewel you lost was blue.

The Bush administration doesn't particularly like public participation. It makes them look bad.

It took the whole of Creation to produce my foot, my each feather: now I hold Creation in my foot.

Prose, narratives, etcetera, can carry healing. Poetry does it more intensely.

The inmost spirit of poetry, in other words, is at bottom, in every recorded case, the voice of pain – and the physical body, so to speak, of poetry, is the treatment by which the poet tries to reconcile that pain with the world.

In the pit of red You hid from the bone-clinic whiteness But the jewel you lost was blue.

The world's decay where the wind's hands have passed, And my head, worn out with love, at rest In my hands, and my hands full of dust.