The snow has quietness in it; no songs, no smells, no shouts or traffic. When I speak my own voice shocks me.

My mouth blooms like a cut.

Poetry is my life, my postmark, my hands, my kitchen, my face.

The future is a fog that is still hanging out over the sea, a boat that floats home or does not.

I'm hunting for the truth. It might be a kind of poetic truth, and not just a factual one, because behind everything that happens to you, there is another truth, a secret life.

The joy that isn't shared dies young.

For I could not read or speak and on the long nights I could not turn the moon off or count the lights of cars across the ceiling.