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

You will always be the bread and the knife, not to mention the crystal goblet and—somehow—the wine.

So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.

I see all of us reading ourselves away from ourselves, straining in circles of light to find more light until the line of words becomes a trail of crumbs that we follow across a page of fresh snow.

I was a pretty happy kid, I had to fake it. I had to get into this miserable character before I wrote poems.

I write with a Uni-Ball Onyx Micropoint on nine-by-seven bound notebooks made by a Canadian company called Blueline. After I do a few drafts, I type up the poem on a Macintosh G3 and then send it out the door.

One of the ridiculous aspects of being a poet is the huge gulf between how seriously we take ourselves and how generally we are ignored by everybody else.