Art is the means we have of undoing the damage of haste. It's what everything else isn't.

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

What's important? That which is dug out of books, or out of the guts?

I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, In my veins, in my bones I feel it,- The small water seeping upward, The tight grains parting at last. When sprouts break out, Slippery as fish, I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.

What falls away is always. And is near.

I teach my sighs to lengthen into songs.

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