All day I've built a lifetime and now the sun sinks to undo it.

sorrow is easier than guilt.

I must always forget how one word is able to pick out another, to manner another, until I have got something I might have said... but did not.

Craft is a trick you make up to let you write the poem.

Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself, Counting this row and that row of moccasins Waiting on the silent shelf.

If I could blame it on all the mothers and fathers of the world, they of the lessons, the pellets of power, they of the love surrounding you like batter ... Blame it on God perhaps? He of the first opening that pushed us all into our first mistakes? No, I'll blame it on Man For Man is God and man is eating the earth up like a candy bar and not one of them can be left alone with the ocean for it is known he will gulp it all down. The stars (possibly) are safe. At least for the moment. The stars are pears that no one can reach, even for a wedding. Perhaps for a death.

When I'm writing, I know I'm doing the thing I was born to do.