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My first girl, only sixteen year and she go, she run away to you.

The best writers talk a story the way they put it down on the page.

We lived below the poverty level. I wasn’t allowed to desire objects.

The main thing a poet tries to do, above all things, is to write a poem.

Be honest. Writing is about honesty, and articulating that honesty.

Be honest. Writing is about honesty, and articulating that honesty.

I dream a sonnet made of buttons posed stiff against its milky plastic sky.

That’s how a lifetime passes, closing the wound, a million stitches.

For Henry Moore there is not only the best day but the worst.

The itch of hay dust was the unscratchable itch of desire.

It’s hard to save your own life, to take such extreme measures alone.

she had big eyes, the better to see right through a person.

A goddam mean big sonofabitch boar rooted me in the stomach.

It wasn’t me he was aiming at; he was using me to make my mom unhappy.

He sobbed; he said he would go to therapy, stop drinking.

What can go heartbreakingly wrong, and what would you do?

He saw the car bearing down and gave it the finger, a snarl on his face.

They felt smarter and sexier, especially when together.

He’s walking loopy, so I know he’s been had something besides beer.

His eyes rested on the trees. By George, it’s like the garden of Eden.

The baby in her belly is not a sibling, will never be their playmate.

Maybe that’s what she feels, not stranded, but suspended in time.

I’m not afraid of dying. I’ve died on camera before. It’s not so bad.

You quickly find nothing interests people so much as themselves.

I never entered no-man’s-land by any light brighter than the palest moon.

People assume married cartoonists are laughing all the time.

Marshall and Mrs. Checchi, it seemed, had this philosophy in common.

If you play, decide three things: the rules, stakes, and quitting time.

I find lost prayers in the tiny edging around buttonholes.

A letter is like a poem, showing the marks of an unwilling composer.