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

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

The poem has a social effect of some kind whether or not the poet wills it to have. It has a kenetic force, it sets in motion...elements in the reader that would otherwise remain stagnant.

Both art and faith are dependent on imagination; both are ventures into the unknown.

If woman is inconstant, good, I am faithful to ebb and flow, I fall in season and now is a time of ripening.

It's when we face for a moment the worst our kind can do, and shudder to know the taint in our own selves, that awe cracks the mind's shell and enters the heart.

Very few people really see things unless they've had someone in early life who made them look at things. And name them too. But the looking is primary, the focus.