Poetry is an art practiced with the terribly plastic material of human language.
When I was writing pretty poor poetry, this girl with midnight black hair told me to go on.
Life is like an onion. You peel it off one layer at a time, and sometimes you weep.
Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during the moment.
Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.
Time is a sandpile we run our fingers in.