We live in wonder, blaze in a cycle of passion and apprehension.

You write for the people in high school who ignored you. We all do.

He said, "You have pigs in this poem; pigs are not poetic." I got up and walked out of that class and never went back.

We live in wonder, blaze in a cycle of passion and apprehension.

Our masks, always in peril of smearing or cracking, in need of continuous check in the mirror or silverware, keep us in thrall to ourselves, concerned with our surfaces.

She tended to be impatient with that sort of intellectual who, for all his brilliance, has never been able to arrive at the simple conclusion that to be reasonably happy you have to be reasonably good.

Poets are interested mostly in death and commas.