I Write What's Given Me To Write.

How Weightless/ Words Are When Nothing Will Do.

It's Ironic That While I Was A Worker In Detroit, Which I Left When I Was Twenty Six, My Sense Was That The Thing That's Going To Stop Me From Being A Poet Is The Fact That I'm Doing This Crummy Work.

I'm Seventy-one Now, So It's Hard To Imagine A Dramatic Change.

I Find You In These Tears, Few, Useless And Here At Last. Don't Come Back.

I Was Very Lucky To Have A Mother Who Encouraged Me To Become A Poet.