Your thighs are appletrees whose blossoms touch the sky. Your knees are a southern breeze.

A poem is a small machine made of words.

Afraid lest he be caught up in a net of words, tripped up, bewildered and so defeated-thrown aside-a man hesitates to write down his innermost convictions.

Writing is not a searching about in the daily experience for apt similes and pretty thoughts and images… It is not a conscious recording of the day’s experiences ‘freshly and with the appearance of reality’… The writer of imagination would find himself released from observing things for the purpose of writing them down later. He would be there to enjoy, to taste, to engage the free world, not a world which he carries like a bag of food, always fearful lest he drop something or someone get more than he.

You have the chicken, the hen, and the rooster. The chicken goes with the hen So who is having sex with the rooster?

In summer, the song sings itself.

Love is unworldly and nothing comes of it but love.