How would you prepare to die on a perfect April evening?

You have me like a drawing, erased, coloured in, untitled, signed by your tongue.

I write quite a lot of sonnets, and I think of them almost as prayers: short and memorable, something you can recite.

I have piles of poetry books in the bathroom, on the stairs, everywhere. The only way to write poetry is to read it.

She stood upon a continent of ice, which sparkled between sea and sky, endless and dazzling, as though the world kept all its treasure there; a scale which balanced poetry and prayer.

I think the dangers are different now. Our abuse of the planet and our resources is an anxiety.

Between 9am and 3pm is when I work most intensely