We have been a little insane about the truth. We have had an obsession.
The poem must resist the intelligence almost successfully.
Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.
My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called "standing people. . . ."
The poet makes silk dresses out of worms.
I am the truth, since I am part of what is real, but neither more nor less than those around me.