Poetry Is The Enemy Of The Poem.

The Poem In The Head Is Always Perfect. Resistance Begins When You Try To Convert It Into Language.

The Universe Is A Continuous Web. Touch It At Any Point And The Whole Web Quivers.

When They Shall Paint Our Sockets Gray And Light Us Like A Stinking Fuse, Remember That We Once Could Say, Yesterday We Had A World To Lose.

I Associate The Garden With The Whole Experience Of Being Alive, And So, There Is Nothing In The Range Of Human Experience That Is Separate From What The Garden Can Signify In Its Eagerness And Its Insistence, And In Its Driving Energy To Live -- To Grow, To Bear Fruit.

Rhythm To Me Is Essentially What Hopkins Called The Taste Of Self. I Taste Myself As Rhythm.