The talkers are rising above the thinkers.

Oh, that river of wishes, the slippery crocodile dream of it, how it might have carried my body down through all the glittering sand bars to the sea.

Life proceeds, it enrages. The untouched ones spend their luck without a thought, believing they deserve it.

Some of us know how we came by our fortune and some of us don't; but we wear it all the same

Like kids who only ever get socks for Christmas, but still believe with all their hearts in Santa.

A miscarriage is a natural and common event. All told, probably more women have lost a child from this world than haven't. Most don't mention it, and they go on from day to day as if it hadn't happened, so people imagine a woman in this situation never really knew or loved what she had. But ask her sometime: how old would your child be now? And she'll know.

Poetry feels like a country I visit without a passport, where I look around furtively, grab hold of something precious, and try to smuggle it back across the border. Any poem I get written down feels like contraband to me.