You remember too much," my mother said to me recently. "Why hold onto all that?" And I said, "where can I put it down?

To be running breathlessly, but not yet arrived, is itself delightful, a suspended moment of living hope.

It is easier to tell a story of how people wound one another than of what binds them together.

Meanwhile music pounded / across hearts opening every valve to the desperate drama of being / a self in a song.

The self forms at the edge of desire, and a science of self arises in the effort to leave that self behind.

Desire is no light thing.

I never really got over the fun of making letters.