Talk to me about sadness. I talk about it too much in my own head but I never mind others talking about it either; I occasionally feel like I tremendously need others to talk about it as well.

Oh, darling, let your body in, let it tie you in, in comfort.

As a writer one has to take the chance on being a fool.

... a starving man doesn't ask what the meal is.

Those moments before a poem comes, when the heightened awareness comes over you, and you realize a poem is buried there somewhere, you prepare yourself. I run around, you know, kind of skipping around the house, marvelous elation. It’s as though I could fly.

God has a brown voice, as soft and full as beer.

All I am is the trick of words writing themselves.