By daily dying, I have come to be.
Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt keeps breathing a small breath.
Any fool can take a bad line out of a poem; it takes a real pro to throw out a good line.
I long for the imperishable quiet at the heart of form.
The fields stretch out in long unbroken rows. We walk aware of what is far and close. Here distance is familiar as a friend. The feud we kept with space comes to an end.
I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.