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.

We cling to words like drowning men to straws. But still we drown, we drown.

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

Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like that.

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

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 write in order to comprehend, not to express myself.