Any fool can take a bad line out of a poem; it takes a real pro to throw out a good line.

Art is our defense against hysteria and death.

Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire

Wake the happy words.

The stones were sharp, The wind came at my back; Walking along the highway, Mincing like a cat.

I'm sure I've been a toad, one time or another. With bats, weasels, worms...I rejoice in the kinship. Even the caterpillar I can love, and the various vermin.

All lovers live by longing, and endure: Summon a vision and declare it pure.