I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. I feel my fate in what I cannot fear. I learn by going where I have to go.

And what a congress of stinks!- Roots ripe as old bait, Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich, Leaf mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks, Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

(I measure time by how a body sways.)

I long for the imperishable quiet at the heart of form.

You must believe a poem is a holy thing, a good poem, that is.

The soul has many motions, body one.

What we need is more people who specialize in the impossible.