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

If truth is the lure, humans are fishes.

At some unnoticed moment, I began to understand that a life is written in indelible ink. What I've chosen, what's happened unchosen, can't be unmade or redone. Poetry, though, is a door that only continues to open. Even the unchangeable past changes inside a poem. Not the facts, but the feeling, the comprehension.

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

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

Gestation requires protected space; ripening requires both permeability to the outer — and non-disturbance.

Within the silence, expansion, and sustained day by day concentration, I grow permeable.