Poetry is a satifying of the desire for resemblance.

It is the sea that whitens the roof. The sea drifts through the winter air. It is the sea that the north wind makes. The sea is in the falling snow.

It is never the thing but the version of the thing.

Thought tends to collect in pools.

Poetry is an abstraction bloodied.

What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.

In poetry, you must love the words, the ideas and the images and rhythms with all your capacity to love anything at all.