In sorrow, pretend to be fearless. In happiness, tremble.

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

In the dream life you don't deliberately set out to dream about a house night after night; the dream itself insists you look at whatever is trying to come into visibility.

Poems give us permission to be unsure, in ways we must be if we are ever to learn anything not already known. If you look with open eyes at your actual life, it's always going to be the kind of long division problem that doesn't work out perfectly evenly. Poems let you accept the multiplicity and complexity of the actual, they let us navigate the unnavigable, insoluble parts of our individual fates and shared existence.

"And" seems to me closest. "And" nods toward the real. And "and" is the path to perspective. To feel and see from more angles and know all of them true, even the incomprehensible ones, even the ones that contradict one another.

Passion does not make careful arguments: it declares itself, and that is enough.

I will never become a horse trainer, a biologist, a person competent with a hammer. My loves were my loves.