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.

Poets are interested mostly in death and commas.

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

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.

You cannot meet someone for a moment, or even cast eyes on someone in the street, without changing. That is my subject.

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.

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