The moment of change is the only poem.

No one has imagined us. We want to live like trees, sycamores blazing through the sulfuric air, dappled with scars, still exuberantly budding, our animal passion rooted in the city.

To write as if your life depended on it; to write across the chalkboard, putting up there in public the words you have dredged; sieved up in dreams, from behind screen memories, out of silence-- words you have dreaded and needed in order to know you exist.

We move but our words stand become responsible for more than we intended and this is verbal privilege

Experience is always larger than language.

To do something very common, in my own way.

Art, whose honesty must work through artifice, cannot avoid cheating truth.