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

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

Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.

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 write in order to comprehend, not to express myself.

My poems are more my silence than my speech. Just as music is a kind of quiet. Sounds are needed only to unveil the various layers of silence.

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