Only truthful hands write true poems. I cannot see any basic difference between a handshake and a poem.

A poem, as a manifestation of language and thus essentially dialogue, can be a message in a bottle, sent out in the –not always greatly hopeful-belief that somewhere and sometime it could wash up on land, on heartland perhaps. Poems in this sense too are under way: they are making toward something. Toward what? Toward something standing open, occupiable, perhaps toward an addressable Thou, toward an addressable reality.

I’m alone with the ghost of the swamp, somewhere near the weeping willows.

It is strange how a scrap of poetry works in the mind and makes the legs move in time to it along the road.

I don't paint things. I only paint the difference between things.

I know the difference between true love and the love of my fans.