At some unnoticed moment, I began to understand that a life is written in indelible ink.

At some point I realized that you don't get a full human life if you try to cut off one end of it, that you need to agree to the entire experience, to the full spectrum of what happens.

In order to gain anything, you must first lose everything

I need more and more silence, it feels. Poems don't leap into my mind when I'm distracted, turned outward, with other people, listening to music.

I want to preserve a certain unknowing about my own poems - perhaps because unknowing is in itself a useful poetic thirst. To move the perimeter of saying outside my own boundaries is one reason I write.

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

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