It is difficult to get the news from poems, yet men die miserably every day for lack of what is found there.

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

A poem is this:/A nuance of sound/delicately operating/upon a cataract of sense/...the particulars/of a song waking/upon a bed of sound.

As birds' wings beat the solid air without which none could fly so words freed by the imagination affirm reality by their flight.

The poem springs from the half spoken words of the patient.... When asked, how I have for so many years continued an equal interest in medicine and the poem, I reply that they amount for me to nearly the same thing.

It is not fair to be old, to put on a brown sweater.

Either I exist or I do not exist, and no amount of pap which I happen to be lapping can dull me to the loss.