The Body Is A Universe In Itself

A Poet Never Feels Useful.

Absence Becomes The Greatest Presence.

Solitude Is My Element, And The Reason Is That Extreme Awareness Of Other People... Precludes Awareness Of One's Self So That After A While The Self No Longer Knows That It Exists.

Poems Like To Have A Destination For Their Flight. They Are Homing Pigeons.

I Feel Like An Inadequate Machine, A Machine That Breaks Down At Crucial Moments, Grinds To A Dreadful Hault, 'won't Go,' Or, Even Worse, Explodes In Some Innocent Person's Face.