The world is beautiful but not sayable. That's why we need art.
Poems are other people's snapshots in which we see our own lives.
We name one thing and then another. That’s how time enters poetry. Space, on the other hand, comes into being through the attention we pay to each word. The more intense our attention, the more space, and there’s a lot of space inside words.
There’s no preparation for poetry.
Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket.
A 'truth' detached and purified of pleasures of ordinary life is not worth a damn in my view. Every grand theory and noble sentiment ought to be first tested in the kitchen-and then in bed, of course.