Let me walk through the fields of paper touching with my wand dry stems and stunted butterflies.

Grief is a hole you walk around in the daytime and at night you fall into it.

But for us the road unfurls itself, we don't stop walking, we know there is far to go.

I thought I was growing wings— it was a cocoon. I thought, now is the time to step into the fire— it was deep water. Eschatology is a word I learned as a child: the study of Last Things; facing my mirror—no longer young, the news—always of death, the dogs—rising from sleep and clamoring and howling, howling.... ("Seeing For a Moment")

There's in my mind a... turbulent moon-ridden girl or old woman, or both, dressed in opals and rags, feathers and torn taffeta, who knows strange songs but she is not kind.

One of the obligations of the writer is to say or sing all that he or she can, to deal with as much of the world as becomes possible to him or her in language.

Breathe the sweetness that hovers in August.