It is not everyday that the world arranges itself into a poem.

I am one of you and being one of you is being and knowing what I am and know. Yet I am the necessary Angel of earth, since, in my sight, you see the earth again.

Money is a kind of poetry.

Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice

Life is an affair of people not of places. But for me, life is an affair of places and that is the trouble.

Poetry is a means of redemption.

Life is not free from its forms.