Certain words now in our knowledge we will not use again, and we will never forget them. We need them. Like the back of the picture.

When a poem is really finished, you can't change anything. You can't move words around. You can't say, 'In other words, you mean.' No, that's not it. There are no other words in which you mean it. This is it.

Send me out into another life lord because this one is growing faint I do not think it goes all the way

I have with me all that I do not knowI have lost none of it.

If there'd been a better-balanced society, where there were other ways of making a decent living, I think it might have been different. That's not the way this setup work.

After an age of leaves and feathers someone dead thought of the mountain as money and cut the trees that were here and the wind and the rain at night. It is hard to say it.

Your absence has gone through me