You can read everybody. It’s not even interesting to tell the truth because to some extent it’s false.
I’m one of the cliches that has grown up.
I’m sorry, but I was born with a towel on my head.
Forgive me if I sleep until I wake up.
I sound like Homer. I mean Winslow Homer.
I don’t live for poetry. I live far more than anybody else does.
The poem, for me, is simply the first sound realized in the modality of being.
I was playing catch with the European audience.
This morning of the small snow I count the blessings, the leak in the faucet which makes of the sink time, the drop of the water on water.
We’re all moving, moving, moving. Isn’t it nice?