The music of memory has its own pitch,/which not everyone hears.

How many years have slipped through our hands? At least as many as the constellations we still can identify. The quarter moon, like a light skiff, floats out of the mist-remnants Of last night’s hard rain. It, too, will slip through our fingers with no ripple, without us in it.

Everyone knows this. The voyage into the interior is all that matters, Whatever your ride.

If you want great tranquility/ It's hard work and a long walk

Poetry is the dark side of the moon.

How many times can summer turn to fall in one life?

It's linkage I'm talking about, and harmonies and structures, And all the various things that lock our wrists to the past.

November’s a burn and an ache.

How sweet the past is, no matter how wrong, or how sad. How sweet is yesterday's noise