My surface is myself. Under which to witness, youth is buried. Roots? Everybody has roots. - William Carlos Williams

Your thighs are apple trees. Your knees are the southern breeze.

Meanwhile, the old man who goes about gathering dog-lime walks in the gutter without looking up and his tread is more majestic than that of the Episcopal minister approaching the pulpit of a Sunday. These things astonish me beyond words.

Poetry demands a different material than prose. It uses another facet of the same fact … the spontaneous conformation of language as it is heard.