The World Is Beautiful But Not Sayable.

Wanted: A Needle Swift Enough To Sew This Poem Into A Blanket.

If I Believe In Anything, It Is In The Dark Night Of The Soul. Awe Is My Religion, And Mystery Is Its Church.

A Poem Is An Instant Of Lucidity In Which The Entire Organism Participates.

There Are Knives That Glitter Like Altars In A Dark Church Where They Bring The Cripple And The Imbecile To Be Healed. There's A Woden Block Where Bones Are Broken, Scraped Clean--a River Dried To Its Bed

He Who Cannot Howl Will Not Find His Pack.