It doesn't matter who my father was; it matters who I remember he was.

And the aura of you remains, remains, remains...

The little girl skipped by under the wrinkled oak leaves and held fast to a replica of herself.

I like you; your eyes are full of language." [Letter to Anne Clarke, July 3, 1964.]

I’ll put it out there: I am scarred by the nostalgic indicipherability of my own desires; I an engulfed by the intimidating unknown, pushed through darkness and dragged down by the irretrievable past sweetness of my memories.

It's a little mad, but I believe I am many people. When I am writing a poem, I feel I am the person who should have written it.

I am teaching... This year it's kind of like having a love affair with a rhinoceros.