Much contemporary verse reads like failed short-short stories rather than failed poetry.
While you’re alive there’s no time for minor amazements.
I've learned that my readings of others' work often has little connection to their intentions. This doesn't mean that my response is wrong, and it doesn't make the author's views less right. Poets, like their poems, are "hopeful monsters".
Anguish is the universal language.
Even when I’m in the dark I’m in the dark with you.
Silence is so steadfast, you know. It is so ample, after all.