To me, poetry is somebody standing up, so to speak, and saying, with as little concealment as possible, what it is for him or her to be on earth at this moment

There are two versions to every poem – the crying version and the straight version

I will find that special person who is wrong for me in just the right way.

Is there a mechanism of death, that so mutilates existence no one, gets over it not even the dead?

Never mind. The self is the least of it. Let our scars fall in love.

When I sleepwalk into your room, and pick you up, and hold you up in the moonlight, you cling to me hard, as if clinging could save us. I think you think I will never die, I think I exude to you the permanence of smoke or stars, even as my broken arms heal themselves around you.

Turn on the dream you lived through the unwavering gaze. It is as you thought: the living burn. In the floating days may you discover grace.