The highest levels of consciousness are wordless.

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

Poetry: three mismatched shoes at the entrance of a dark alley.

When people ask me how to find happiness in life I tell them, First learn how to cook.

I left parts of myself everywhere, The way absent-minded people leave Gloves and umbrellas Whose colors are sad from dispensing so much bad luck

Wanted: a needle swift enough to sew this poem into a blanket.

Here in the United States, we speak with reverence of authentic experience. We write poems about our daddies taking us fishing and breaking our hearts by making us throw the little fish back into the river. We even tell the reader the kind of car we were driving, the year and the model, to give the impression that it’s all true. It’s because we think of ourselves as journalists of a kind. Like them, we’ll go anywhere for a story. Don’t believe a word of it. As any poet can tell you, one often sees better with eyes closed than with eyes wide open.