Never mind. The self is the least of it. Let our scars fall in love.

Kiss the mouth which tells you, here, here is the world. This mouth. This laughter. These temple bones.

The very heart of the American enterprise has been taken up by the material and by power, ... It's not the kind of country [where] you'd expect to see poetry flower.

I think it might help to keep his memory vivid, ... People might be led from one book to the other.

Let our scars fall in love.

That's the way it is with poetry: When it is incomprehensible it seems profound, and when you understand it, it is only ridiculous.