It is as if one by one, the memories you used to harbor decided to retire to the Southern Hemisphere of the brain.

I try to presume that no one is interested in me. And I think experience bears that out. No one's interested in the experiences of a stranger - let's put it that way. And then you have difficulty combined with presumptuousness, which is the most dire trouble with poetry.

But my heart is always propped up in a field on its tripod, ready for the next arrow.

I love to move like a mouse inside this puzzle for the body, balancing the wish to be lost with the need to be found.

I sit in the dark and wait for a little flame to appear at the end of my pencil.

And I should mention the light which falls through the big windows this time of day italicizing everything it touches.

I think what gets a poem going is an initiating line. Sometimes a first line will occur, and it goes nowhere; but other times - and this, I think, is a sense you develop - I can tell that the line wants to continue. If it does, I can feel a sense of momentum - the poem finds a reason for continuing.