We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world.

I like ornament at the right time, but I don't want a poem to be made out of decoration ... When I read the poems that matter to me, it stuns me how much the presence of the heart-in all its forms-is endlessly available there. To experience ourselves in an important way just knocks me out. It puzzles me why people have given that up for cleverness. Some of them are ingenious, more ingenious than I am, but so many of them aren't any good at being alive.

What we feel most has no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.

The heart lies to itself because it must.

I believe that Icarus was not failing as he fell, but just coming to the end of his triumph.

I would say Pittsburgh softly each time before throwing him up. Whisper Pittsburgh with my mouth against the tiny ear and throw him higher. Pittsburgh and happiness high up. The only way to leave even the smallest trace. So that all his life her son would feel gladness unaccountably when anyone spoke of the ruined city of steel in America. Each time almost remembering something maybe important that got lost.

How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite.