Summer for prose and lemons, for nakedness and languor.

I try to forget what happiness was, and when that don't work, I study the stars.

For every poet it is always morning in the world; history a forgotten, insomniac night. The fate of poetry is to fall in love with the world in spite of history.

There's always more to see.

I too saw the wooden horse blocking the stars.

We read, we travel, we become.

Who cares about a kid from the Midwest writing pentameter? It's stupid.