In everyone there sleeps. A sense of life lived according to love. To some it means the difference they could make. By loving others, but across most it sweeps. As all they might have done had they been loved. That nothing cures.
Life has a practice of living you, if you don't live it.
Life and literature is a question of what one thrills to, and further than that no man shall ever go without putting his foot in a turd.
You can look out of your life like a train
The first day after a death, the new absence Is always the same; we should be careful Of each other, we should be kind While there is still time.
They say eyes clear with age.
Man hands on misery to man. It deepens like a coastal shelf. Get out as early as you can, and don't have any kids yourself.
Our almost-instinct almost true: What will survive of us is love.
I wouldn't mind seeing China if I could come back the same day.
I never think of poetry or the poetry scene, only separate poems written by individuals.
I can't understand these chaps who go round American universities explaining how they write poems: It's like going round explaining how you sleep with your wife.
To start at a new place is always to feel incompetent
Superstition, like belief, must die
They fuck you up, your mum and dad. They may not mean to, but they do. They fill you with the faults they had And add some extra, just for you.