Mood can be as important as sense.

Maybe I am becoming a hermit, opening the door for only a few special animals? Maybe my skull is too crowded and it has no opening through which to feed it soup?

One can't build little white picket fences to keep nightmares out.

Images are the heart of poetry ... You're not a poet without imagery.

I lay there silently, hoarding my small dignity. I did not ask about the gate or the closet. I did not question the bedtime ritual where, on the cold bathroom tiles, I was spread out daily and examined for flaws. I did not know that my bones, those solids, those pieces of sculpture would not splinter.

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

Well, one gets out of bed and the planets don't always hiss or muck up the day, each day.