There are things better left untouched by words.

Writing down your thoughts is both necessary and harmful. It leads to eccentricity, narcissism, preserves what should be let go. On the other hand, these notes intensify the inner life, which, left unexpressed, slips through your fingers. If only I could find a better kind of journal, humbler, one that would preserve the same thoughts, the same flesh of life, which is worth saving.

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.

I am that which lies beyond time. Like a melody, which sounds completely only after the last note is played.

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

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