“MemoriesHello, duck,in yellowcloth stuffed frominside out,littlepillow.”

“Still, no one finally knows what a poet is supposed either to be or to do. Especially in this country, one takes on the job—because all that one does in America is considered a "job"—with no clear sense as to what is required or where one will ultimately be led. In that respect, it is as particular an instance of a "calling" as one might point to. For years I've kept in mind, "Many are called but few are chosen." Even so "called," there were no assurances that one would be answered.”

“When I speak, I speaks.”

“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 more of it.”

“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 home.”

“Moon, moon,when you leave me aloneall the darkness isan utter blackness,a pit of fear,a stench,hands unreasonablenever to touch.But I love you.Do you love me.What to saywhen you see me.”

“Love, if you love me,lie next to me.Be for me, like rain,the getting outof the tiredness, the fatuousness, the semi-lust of intentional indifference.Be wetwith a decent happiness. ”