Only poetry can measure the distance between ourselves and the Other.

I was already dozing off in the shade, dreaming that the rustling trees were my many selves explaining themselves all at the same time so that I could not make out a single word. My life was a beautiful mystery on the verge of understanding, always on the verge! Think of it!

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.

He who cannot howl will not find his pack.

Poetry is an orphan of silence. The words never quite equal the experience behind them.

Here is something we can all count on. Sooner or later our tribe always comes to ask us to agree to murder.

Only poetry can measure the distance between ourselves and the Other.