One way poetry connects is across time. . . . Some echo of a writer's physical experience comes into us when we read her poem.

How fine is the mesh of death. You can almost see through it.

How fragile we are, between the few good moments.

as some strings, untouched, sound when no one is speaking. So it was when love slipped inside us.

Any artist, in any field, wants to press deeper, to discover further. Image and sound play are among the strongest colors available to poetry's palette. For a long time, I've wanted to invite in more strangeness, more freedom of imagination. Yet music, seeing, and meaning are also cohering disciplines. They can be stretched, and that is part of poetry's helium pleasure. But not to the point of breaking.

One breath taken completely; one poem, fully written, fully read - in such a moment, anything can happen.

The nourishment of Cezanne's awkward apples is in the tenderness and alertness they awaken inside us.