“When I speak, I speaks.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

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

“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. ”