I’m heading for a clean-named placelike Wisconsin, and mad as a jack-o’-lantern, will get therewithout help and nosy proclivities.

I don’t look on poetry as closed works. I feel they’re going on all the time in my head and I occasionally snip off a length.

A little bunny or some kind of ferret was probablythere too, and bore witness as only rodents can.

The poem is sad because it wants to be yours, and cannot be.

Its a bit mad. Too bad, I mean, that getting to know each just for a fleeting second Must be replaced by unperfect knowledge of the featureless wholeLike some pocket history of the world, so...

The summer demands and takes away too much. /But night, the reserved, the reticent, gives more than it takes

until only infinity remained of beauty

I tried each thing, only some were immortal and free.

The music brought us what it seemed / We had long desired, but in a form / so rarefied there was no emptiness of sensation

So one can lose a good ideaby not writing it down, yet by losing it one can have it: it nourishes other asidesit knows nothing of, would not recognize itself in, yet when the negotiationsare...

How many people came and stayed a certain time,Uttered light or dark speech that became part of youLike light behind windblown fog and sandFiltered and influenced by it, until no partRemains that is surely you.

Darkness fell like a wet sponge.

There is the view that poetry should improve your life. I think people confuse it with the Salvation Army.

I write with experiences in mind, but I don’t write about them, I write out of them.

The first year was like icing. Then the cake started to show through …

I like poems you can tack all over with a hammer and there are no hollow places.