One writes because one has been touched by the yearning for and the despair of ever touching the Other.

The stars know everything, So we try to read their minds. As distant as they are, We choose to whisper in their presence.

Inside my empty bottle I was constructing a lighthouse while all others were making ships.

Poetry is an orphan of silence.

The world is beautiful but not sayable. That's why we need art.

Words make love on the page like flies in the summer heat and the poet is only the bemused spectator.

The plain truth is we are going to die. Here I am, a teeny spec surrounded by boundless space and time, arguing with the whole of creation, shaking my fist, sputtering, growing even eloquent at times, and then-poof! I am gone. Swept off once and for all. I think that is very, very funny.