“Passing that fiery tree-if only she could; Be making love, Be making poetry, Be exploding, be speeding through the universe; Like a photon, like a shower; Of yellow blazes...”

“The life spills over, some days.She cannot be at rest,Wishes she could explodeLike that red tree—The one that bursts into fireAll this week.Senses her infinite smallnessBut can’t seize it,Recognizes the folly of desire,The folly of withdrawal—Kicks at the curb, the pavement,If only she could, at this moment,When what she’s doing is ploddingTo the bus stop, to go to school,Passing that fiery tree—if only she couldBe making love,Be making a painting,Be exploding, be speeding through the universeLike a photon, like a showerOf yellow flames—She believes if she could only catch upWith the riding rhythm of things, of her own electrons,Then she would be at rest—If she could forget school,Climb the tree,Be the tree,burn like that.”

“Speed did not feel exhilarating or thrilling anymore. It only felt like a rapid approach toward something distant that she couldn’t make out through the dirty windshield.”

“Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree; And only God who makes the tree Also makes the fools like me. But only fools like me, you see, Can make a God, who makes a tree.”

“I make love like a leprechaun, and I cuddle like a rainbow—after a shower.”

“This is love if it's not with you, a terrible fiery something that makes people look away, and it feels like a punch in the throat.”