When I am alone I am happy.
A poem is a small machine made out of words.
If it ain't a pleasure, it ain't a poem.
Shoes twisted into incredible lilies.
Sorrow is my own yard where the new grass flames as it has flamed often before but not with the cold fire that closes round me this year.
A poem is a small machine made of words. . .Its movement is intrinsic, undulant, a physical more than a literary character.