Poetry to me is prayer.

Writers are such phonies: they sometimes have wise insights but they don't live by them at all. That's what writers are like...you think they know something, but usually they are just messes.

Death's in the good-bye.

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

... and my love stays bitterly glowing, spasms of it will not sleep, and I am helpless and thirsty and need shade but there is no one to cover me- not even God.

Put your mouthful of words away and come with me to watch the lilies open in such a field, growing there like yachts, slowly steering their petals without nurses or clocks.

Depression is boring, I think and I would do better to make some soup and light up the cave.