The secret wish of poetry is to stop time.

In their effort to divorce language and experience, deconstructionist critics remind me of middle-class parents who do not allow their children to play in the street.

The ambition of much of today's literary theory seems to be to find ways to read literature without imagination.

For Emily Dickinson every philosophical idea was a potential lover. Metaphysics is the realm of eternal seduction of the spirit by ideas.

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

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

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