Suddenly the whole imagination of writing and editorial and newspaper and all these presumptions about who am I reading this, and who else other peop….

No matter how wild reality was obviously often being, it was an absolutely secure place, as a tone and intelligence, and a thing happening..

Locale is both a geographic term and the inner sense of being..

Communication is mutual feeling with someone, not a didactic process of information..

What has happened makes the world. Live on the edge, looking..

God give you pardon from gratitude and other mild forms of servitude..

The awful thing, as a kid reading, was that you came to the end of the story, and that was it. I mean, it would be heartbreaking that there was no mo….

Form is never more than an extension of content..

What a great thing! To be a writer! Words are something you can carry in your head. You can really 'travel light.'.

For love - I would split open your head and put a candle in behind the eyes..

I heard words and words full of holes aching..

My love's manners in bed are not to be discussed by me.

I know this body is impatient. I know I constitute only a meager voice and mind. Yet I loved, I love. I want no sentimentality. I want no more than h….

As I get older, I recognize that my thinking about poetry may or may not have anything actively to do with my actual work as a poet. This strikes ….

My wife and I lived all alone, contention was our only bone. I fought with her, she fought with me, and things went on right merrily. But now I l….

The pattern of the narrative never of necessity wants to end, it never has to..

I did however used to think, you know, in the woods walking, and as a kid playing in the woods, that there was a kind of immanence there — that woods….

Moon, moon, when you leave me alone all the darkness is an utter blackness, a pit of fear, a stench, hands unreasonable never to touch. But I love yo….

The Lady has always moved to the next town and you stumble on after Her..

There are a lot of editorials that have nothing to do with anything like that. But I was just thinking of that sense of prose as being very responsib….

It is hard going to the door cut so small in the wall where the vision which echoes loneliness brings a scent of wild flowers in the wood..