Those who are willing to be vulnerable move among mysteries.

All lovers live by longing, and endure: Summon a vision and declare it pure.

Over every mountain there is a path, although it may not be seen from the valley.

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.

The fields stretch out in long unbroken rows. We walk aware of what is far and close. Here distance is familiar as a friend. The feud we kept with space comes to an end.

You must believe: a poem is a holy thing - a good poem, that is. The poem, even a short time after being written, seems no miracle; unwritten, it seems something beyond the capacity of the gods.

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