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

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.

Live in a perpetual great astonishment.

The visible exhausts me. I am dissolved in shadow.

I have gone into the waste lonely places

I came to love, I came into my own.

Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire