The poem in the head is always perfect. Resistance starts when you try to convert it into language. Language itself is a kind of resistance to the pure flow of self.
End with an image and don't explain.
I can hardly wait for tomorrow, it means a new life for me each and every day.
...few young poets [are] testing their poems against the ear. They're writing for the page, and the page, let me tell you, is a cold bed.
Darling, do you remember the man you married? Touch me, remind me who I am.
You must be careful not to deprive the poem of its wild origin.
