Forgive me if I sleep until I wake up.

Atlantis will rise again.

Fact is based upon vulgar matter.

I am happy to have some friends here in the kitchen.

I defer to all these other American poets who, for some reason, I both envy and admire.

I don't live for poetry. I live far more than anybody else does.

I hope you're representing the devil's advocate.

I remember way back when I was young, 10 years ago.

I sound like Homer. I mean Winslow Homer.

I was playing catch with the European audience.

I'm one of the cliches that has grown up.

I'm sorry, but I was born with a towel on my head.

I'm trying to climb up both walls at once.

The heroes of the present will retreat to the imitation they are anyhow.

The poem, for me, is simply the first sound realized in the modality of being.

There is a grace of life which is still yours, my dear Europe.

This country has been unconscious, and it's got to awake. That's my belief.

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 all want what's been suddenly disallowed.

We're all moving, moving, moving. Isn't it nice?