I have no talent. I write poems for myself, to think things through, that’s all.

This morning I suddenly catch myself: I'm not there, I'm so lost in thought, I don't know what's going on around me. Can you think yourself to death?

I’m moved by everything broken and crippled. Since that’s how we really are.

Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.

I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.

I don’t write poetry when I wish, I write when I can’t, when my larynx is flooded and my throat is shut.

The way a source strains toward the light, toward the air. Its laboring work, its effort, its black passageways like despair. That’s the way a poet looks for words. With muscles, gestures.