My Papa's Waltz: The whiskey on your breath Could make a small boy dizzy; But I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. We romped until the pans Slid from the kitchen shelf; My mother's countenance Could not unfrown itself. The hand that held my wrist Was battered on one knuckle; At every step you missed My right ear scraped a buckle. You beat time on my head With a palm caked hard by dirt, Then waltzed me off to bed Still clinging to your shirt.

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

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

The soul has many motions, body one.

Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt keeps breathing a small breath.

I have gone into the waste lonely places

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