It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

Poetry is the language of intensity. Because we are going to die, an expression of intensity is justified.

Every poem I write falls short in some important way. But I go on trying to write the one that won’t.

Literature is not a picture of life, but is a separate experience with its own kind of flow and enhancement.

I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another til I drop.

Far away, our dreams have nothing to do with what we do. The wind carries the night, and passes on, aimless.

There is nothing like scrubbing toilets for a living to make you question the choices you have made in life.

the glory of the protagonist is always paid for by a lot of secondary characters

There's a certain slant of light,On winter afternoons,That oppresses, like the weightOf cathedral tunes.

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

Si todos los rios son dulcesde donde saca sal el mar?If all rivers are sweetwhere does the sea get its salt?

...if you do not even understand what words say, how can you expect to pass judgement on what words conceal?

If we knew how to find the lost, we would know how to rediscover the parts of our mindsleft behindin battle.

The press of my foot to the earth springs a hundred affections,They scorn the best I can do to relate to them

We real cool. WeLeft school. WeLurk late. WeStrike straight. WeSing sin. WeThin gin. WeJazz June. WeDie soon.