Poetry is fired by love.

At times it is strangely sedative to know the extent of your own powerlessness.

There's another part of getting older that's just wonderful. Which is you see the way the stories turn out with peoples' lives.

The bruise on the heart which at first feels incredibly tender to the slightest touch eventually turns all the shades of the rainbow and stops aching. We forget about it. We even forget we have hearts until the next time. And then we wonder how we ever could have forgotten. We think this one is better, because, in fact, we cannot fully remember the time before.

My mother wanted me to be her wings, to fly as she never quite had the courage to do. I love her for that. I love the fact that she wanted to give birth to her own wings.

Love is everything it's cracked up to be

language can't be appropriated by one person, one poet. The words belong to all of us.