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 have gone into the waste lonely places

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

May my silences become more accurate.

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

How terrible the need for God.

Reason? That dreary shed, that hutch for grubby schoolboys.