The poet: would rather eat a heart than a hambone.

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.

How body from spirit slowly does unwind, until we are pure spirit at the end.

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

I can't go on flying apart just for those who want the benefit of a few verbal kicks. My God, do you know what poems like that cost? They're not written vicariously: they come out of actual suffering, real madness.

Teach as an old fishing guide takes out a beginner.

(I measure time by how a body sways.)