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.

Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.

Poetry is a presentiment of the truth.

Tell me what's the difference

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

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.

Even a painful longing is some form of presence.